


The Spoken Word

by EdilMayHampsen



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (author is allo. I tried. Had several ace betas so I think this is good), (only for a bit) - Freeform, Ace Jon, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, I wrote all of it (and quoted some songs) so if you don't like poetry probably don't do this, It's toothrot but you have to work for it a little, JonMartin deserve a chance to mourn, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, OH! LOTS OF POETRY!, Oh also, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), TMA Big Bang 2020, ace Martin, but there is still, chapters can porbably be read as oneshots but they're chronological, except the apocalypse didn't (doesn't) happen. I do not see it, gender up in this bitch, its just that good good, non-binary jon fuck yeah, now for important tags:, sprinkle in a little mourning, that is very important there's SO MUCH poetry, the lonely is here, there is no plot they just kiss, trans martin also fuck yeah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EdilMayHampsen/pseuds/EdilMayHampsen
Summary: What are you thinking?Why are you glancing at me?Making my head go ‘roundMaking my heart poundWhat are you staring at?I wonder what it is you seeAre you looking at me?What are you looking for?--Jon wants. Their pinky twitches — stretching and curling to the tune of something musical. The song of wanting, with its motifs of long, low notes. Starting quiet and mumbling up into Jon’s chest until the strings of their heart vibrate like the strings of a double bass and all they can do is wonder who’s tune they’re matching. But they know.They can’t have Martin, though it’s no fault of their own. The Lonely is an abrasive place. Martin went into it full and functional, he went into it willingly and he let the fog tear down every last boundary the man had built himself. Healthy defenses obscured in the fog he could side step into. It was easy for him. Jon knows how easy it can be, both to give into a fear and to put their needs above the security of others. They won’t do that again. Not to Martin.---
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 98
Collections: Repulsed/Averse Ace Jon Archivist, TMA Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading all! A few notes you should read before you get started.
> 
> Although this fic is largely fluffy, chapter one has the most angst. TWs are as follows:  
> -mentions of past canonical death, hypothetical death, and mourning  
> -verbal abuse by Mrs.Blackwood  
> -anxiety-adjectent distress  
> -there's actually no swearing in this despite my tag shenanigans
> 
> Notes on the poems:  
> All of the poems here (except for the songs I quoted, which are signed with their band/singer) are written by me! Over a period of years plural! Largely they were written about events in my own life thought a few were written specifically for this fic and they mean a lot to me so please play reasonably nice.  
> All poems will be italicized in their own block of text. Songs will be in quotations marks and centered. Poetry that is relating to/from Jon will be on your left side, Martin is on the right, both, as you will see in later chapters, is in the middle.
> 
> Also thanks to my utterly AMAZING HYPER-FANTSTIC WORLD-SHATTERINGLY-AWESOME Artists & betas, Antiv3nom, Cai, Hound, Remy, Faby, Sky, Sal, and special thanks for the folk in Charlie's Polycule (yes I'm calling out our server name) for enabling this fic when it was but a wee fixation.
> 
> more about them in the end notes.

## 

## Chapter one.

_What are you thinking?_

_Why are you glancing at me?_

_Making my head go ‘round_

_Making my heart pound_

_What are you staring at?_

_I wonder what it is you see_

_Are you looking at me?_

_What are you looking for?_

-<Jon>-

Jon wants. Their pinky twitches — stretching and curling to the tune of something musical. The song of wanting, with its motifs of long, low notes. Starting quiet and mumbling up into Jon’s chest until the strings of their heart vibrate like the strings of a double bass and all they can do is wonder who’s tune they’re matching. But they know. 

They can’t have Martin, though it’s no fault of their own. The Lonely is an abrasive place. Martin went into it full and functional, he went into it willingly and he let the fog tear down every last boundary the man had built himself. Healthy defenses obscured in the fog he could side step into. It was easy for him. Jon knows how easy it can be, both to give into a fear and to put their needs above the security of others. They won’t do that again. Not to Martin. He’s building himself back up. Jon saw it in the way Martin squared his shoulders and took a deep breath before he stepped into view of the gas station attendant, or took a third try when his second attempt to smile fell flat, and when he looked at Jon. All the way up to Scotland Martin was _trying_. If Jon moves too fast they could send him back to square zero, break through all of that newborn confidence. It was a non-option.

_I’d wait until the mountains go flat_. 

But it won’t be much longer now.

Jon walks into the living room from where they’d finished putting their meager supplies in the kitchen cupboards and rummaging for what Daisy had left behind. Martin stands there in front of the whiteboard he’d insisted on bringing from the institute humming and rereading his short-hand. That’s what Jon gets for having a boyfriend in administration — shorthand. But if it helps Martin maintain some sense of normalcy, Jon won’t comment. 

Martin turns to Jon, talking half at them and half through them, “I have the to-do list, I kept it manageable ‘cause there’s no point in making the house all nice if we’re dead, haha! And, um, and I’ve got playlists ready if we’ll ever need to make cleaning less boring cause I know I can get boring very quickly and—”

“Martin.” Jon says. 

That does it. Martin’s eyes go from far away to _seeing_ Jon there. He doesn’t square his shoulders, his smile only takes one try, and Martin nods like he’s got the last thing he needs. 

“Perfect,” Martin says, pink cheeks swelling like a cherub’s. 

_I’d stay out in the cold until it’s warm again_

Jon’s pinky tenses, pointing to Martin like they're a compass and he’s due north before they pin it down with their thumb in embarrassment. Martin may be what they want, yes — to hold close to him and offer comfort like a devotee at an altar — but they cannot have it.

When Martin is smiling like that, Jon hardly trusts themself to speak. “Aux jack,” they say, holding out the radio in their hand. 

_I’d remain a lingering discorporation_

“Oh!” Martin says, “Thank you, I wasn’t sure how that music thing would work out anyways — but, but this is just great.” and he lays his hands over Jon’s to take the radio but doesn’t pull away. And he lays his eyes on Jon’s eyes but there is no fear. Jon freezes in place, their pinky pulsing in a little stim run wild. 

“And I really mean that,” Marin says, “Thank you.”

_But you said you don’t feel the same, and_

_I’d stare until my eyes bleed clear_

Martin’s hands were cold and calloused, frightfully gentle though realization that Jon is being _touched_ hits them like they were struck. Like eating the ice cubes from your drink when it’s just on the hot end of spring: relief and then, immediately after, a sense of impending dread for a brain freeze that doesn’t come. And it’s nice. 

_I’d sit and stay forever here_

Martin’s long since moved on when Jon shakes themself. Pushing their tongue back into their mouth and picking up their personality from where they’d dropped it in shock.

“—Enough to browse with the CSS off, you know?” Martin is saying, “But I have way too much music downloaded on my phone, so we'll be fine for a while. What playlist are you feeling? I sort them by mood and I have one for everything at this point."

Jon is hardly more prepared than the last time when Martin looks to them expectantly.

“Oh,” they say, “Ah…” 

What would Martin even like? He likes Keats, which means sentimentality. Love songs might be too forward whereas something else may be too backwards and they can’t think of anything else and Jon realizes they’ve been thinking a microsecond too long and each word they think from here on out will only make Martin more nervous so they say, “How about something to say goodbye?”

Martin winces, looking at the ceiling like he’s receiving the information from on high (Jon sure hopes he isn’t), “I think I have a few of those. Something upbeat, or maybe angry-righteous kind of bye or a thank-god-it’s-over kind of—” 

“Stars, Martin, that’s a lot.” 

“Yeah,” Martin laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. He isn't saying something, Jon knows. Martin bites his lip when he's willfully omitting, as he’s doing now, just like his ear twitches when he lies. "Let's go for an upbeat one?"

_It’s been a while_

_Since I’ve seen that little smile_

_You always look away_

_When I say something silly_

“Sure,” Jon says with some effort. They’re trying not to Know, but The Eye presses the information into their mind with glee. It isn’t from _inside_ Martin’s head, but it regards him. Jon figures the resistance isn’t worth their effort. 

  
“ _Cherish,_ ” The eye tells them. The single word _cherish_. The name of Martin’s playlist.

Maybe Jon hadn’t messed up after all. 

It takes a few taps, and a lot of swipes from what must be Martin's horrendously long list of music. Then, one last tap and Martin smiles at the little victory. Jon's wracked with the overwhelming urge to touch his face, drag their thumb against the curve of Martin’s grin and— mentally they slap their own wrist. 

Jon doesn't know the song that comes on, not immediately, but the familiarity makes their fingers itch. The Eye offers them no assistance. Martin hums along, pressing his lips into an "M" sound that curves up at the corners. He dances with motions almost too small to perceive. A tick of the shoulder there, the ankle picked up with a slight bend in the knee, a kick-ball-step disguised in the pivot he makes to reach the broom. Jon perceives it. They will keep perceiving, keep wanting, but if keeping their distance is what Martin needs to shine that smile without Jon's shadow in the way, Jon will cross to the opposite end of the earth. The radiance will reach them still, they’re sure. They'll still be able to Know. But here with Martin is perfection. Jon’s just close enough to jump between Martin and harm, if need be. And moments like this, where there’s nothing to hurt them, nothing besides themselves, are Jon’s reward for their loyalty. 

"You're staring, Jon."

"No," Jon says, sounding petulant—and their shoes are suddenly the only thing Jon can look at, they’re fascinating, they have _laces_ and — Jon might as well have written 'conspicuous' on their forehead. Jon’s mind is the tortoise focused on getting to the finish line with a good, safe excuse and their tongue is the hare with no such concerns. Damn.

Martin only half-laughs-half-sighs, mumbling something affectionate where Jon is certain they hear the short “o” of their name. Jon risks a glance at Martin’s face only to be ambushed by the _fondness_ in his expression. His dimple ends the curve of his lips with a comma in a way that _must_ be shorthand for something. Poetry is in Martin's blood, it's on his skin, Jon can taste it in the air around them. Martin takes a step towards them and Jon’s whole body tenses in preparation to run for it, but Jon stands their ground. Martin’s face melts into something softer and for a moment Jon feels safe.

Then all at once, they don’t. 

Martin's hand takes Jon's own, fingers brushing over the skin of their palm. ( _Humans can feel objects as small as 13 nanometers_ , the eye offers helpfully and Jon is painfully aware that Martin is so much bigger.) Every nerve lights up. Jon might be dying, they assume they're dying, and if it has to happen now then that might be alright. They stiffen, trying to soothe themself back into anything even approaching stoic, but it’s hard. Martin is trying. Martin’s been trying, so Jon can try too.

Martin presses the broom into Jon's palm and steps away, still smiling his reassuring smile.

-</Jon>-

_I watch your romance in the shadows on the wall_

_And the music is upbeat, but I'm still in my seat_

_Hoping I can have it all_

_But when I turn around, there you are_

_We’re barely touching but it’s like I’m in your arms_

_It’s such a pleasant feeling as I look up at false stars_

_Twinkling on the ceiling_

-<Martin>-

Martin doesn’t say a lot of things, but he still hopes Jon can hear them. _Please don’t leave, I need you here, please don’t leave, I will be better. I’ll be less work. I’m trying_. The words weigh down the air around them, making their living room feel heavy with the expectation. 

"Let's start in here? We can move the music with us as we go." Martin says.

Cleaning is a poor excuse to be around Jon, he knows, but it’s the best Martin can do right now. It feels like Martin has weight strapped to his wrists every time he tries to reach out. Maybe he would’ve been strong enough to push through it if he hadn’t given into The Lonely. If he had just been stronger, stronger than Peter. Now Martin’s already made a mistake. He could have just held out the broom, he _should_ have just held out the broom, but instead he gives into that silent screaming thing in his head that isn’t loud enough to make Martin speak but actions, apparently, are fair game. Jon is scared and Martin scared them. Startled like an insect in a windstorm when Martin as much as looked at them. Because that’s what happens when Martin is around other people. Fear. 

Whether it’s their own pain or someone else’s, people hurt each other with the cruel efficiency of a scythe through wheat. They come to anticipate it. That’s where he and Peter were the same. They were tired. Tired of the noise and the pain and the mess of expectations that descends onto each and every one of us like a swarm of something angry every time we walk out of the house, down the street, into the archives. 

But even Peter was scared of Martin, and that feeling wasn’t mutual. Peter hurt other people and wanted to be feared, Peter did it on purpose so — and it is a hopeful thing to suppose, but Martin is a hopeful man — maybe Martin doesn’t have anything to worry about. Maybe people just scare each other sometimes, and when you’re as wary of affection as Jonathan Sims, maybe that isn’t a bad thing. 

Martin tells himself he can’t be sure; that he should stay on the safe side and stay away. But then he remembers that Jon is, in fact, as per their agreement (as surprising as that is), Martin’s partner. So when Jon follows Martin to the same corner of the room the thoughts dilute. They aren’t gone, they probably won’t ever be, but they’re easier to ignore the closer Jon gets. Quieter with the reminder that Jon wants to be around. That the expectations can stay _outside_. Right now, they are home.

He lets himself relax.

Jon’s doing the bare minimum to sweep the floor, which almost makes Martin feel annoyed. Their allergies will start acting up if they don't start working away at the exoskeleton of dust most of their furniture has — Jon with a sinus headache is an unpleasant Jon to be around — but the tension that goes slack, the red string of fate that hangs satiated at the short distance between them keeps Martin from complaining. They’ll get Claritin when they go to the store, it’s fine.

"'Scuse me." Martin says, slipping between Jon and the mangy excuse for a sofa to skip the song he knows is queueing. "Not in the mood for this one. Are you alright?"

Jon makes a sound. Whatever it was meant to be cuts off as Jon bites down on their tongue. It’s a poor habit. Martin ought to tell them off of it. Maybe later, when they’ve settled in and Jon won’t mind him doting.

Martin removes his hand from where it fell on the small of Jon's back, and Jon's shoulders fall some.

"Okay." Martin says, sounding surer than he is. He goes to dust the ceiling fan, shoulder bumping Jon's with a satisfying slide of fabric. "Oh. sor-"

Jon bumps his shoulder back.

"oh.” Martin says, “On second thought I don’t like this song either.” Jon doesn’t jump this time when Martin touches them and hits skip, just sort of looks up, with a recognition that dispels Martin’s regret like he _wishes_ Jon was dispelling the dust that coats their floor, instead of standing there using the broom handle as a...microphone.

In Martin’s eyes, it’s a performance for the ages.

Jon taps their foot to the introduction. The song that plays, Atlantic, feels so unlike them, but the song isn’t up loud and Jon's voice sits on the gravelly side of rich, flowing with and over the music, wonderful and wild and too fast for a voice meant for jazz. It comes from their chest and the back of their throat; places Martin wants to put his hands to and feel the way Jon's body rumbles, feel Jon's breath against his neck as they sway together. Martin ought to sit on his hands before they do something he hasn't thought through. Jon sings.

_“_ _My eyes are tired, blood pumped with caffeine/_

_This place feels more and more like nowhere to me.”_

_-Atlantic, by Grayscale_

Something in the words must resonate with Jon.

_Somewhere near a festival_

_Fountains of red wine_

_But I needn’t find a lover_

_As It’s you I stroll ‘longside_

_Though the anchor on your ankles_

_Doesn’t ’llow you to dance_

_You may observe, my mortal aphrodite..._

  
  


_I thought I knew love and I did not_

_But I am coming to_

_Love is a stomach bug_

OH.

_Passed to you in passing by another_

_And it grips me_

_In waves that force out gasps_

Martin turns his face away, feeling his heat crawl up his neck. Lordie. 

_And isn’t it such a precious gift to accept?_

_Isn’t it joyous?_

_Isn’t it honor in every way?_

Jon twirls their way around the couch, leaning in towards Martin to emphasize a line. Jon smiles at him for a moment, easy folds forming on their scarred skin, hair only slightly more disheveled than usual. They look unbelievable. God-like. Martin's mouth may be hanging open, but so what? It may not sound the best, it may just be a spike in their adrenaline and joy that has Martin aghast and laughing, but it is _their_ s. This moment, it belongs to him and Jon.

Jon picks up again on the chorus, turning to point at the wall as if there’s a crowd out there. Martin bends to lean on the back of the couch and rests his head on his hand, just watching. Jon pivots back, throwing the broom into the crook of their elbow to drum on Martin's shoulder with the music, absolutely going ham. 

Martin giggles, then snorts, and buries his face in his hands, still shaking with laughter and feeling embarrassingly warm. Jon slows down for the bridge, reciting the lyrics verbatim and not missing a single one of the pauses that always throw Martin off when he tries to sing this song. They run out of air too quickly on the last note, and turn to Martin, only then remembering to be timid. A sheen of sweat graces Jon's forehead like a crown as they rake their curls back with one hand. Chuckling like they were caught doing something — something _Jon_ again. Which isn't entirely untrue.

Martin's mouth forms several shapes with how much he wants to tell Jon they’re beautiful, that they make him happy, that he _should_ be surprised to see his former sweater-vest toting coworker in his living room sing-screaming and disheveled, but he isn't surprised in the slightest. Martin doesn't say any of those things. He isn't sure he's allowed to.

Instead, he opts for "Had fun?" knowing his voice drips with a sweetness he can't contain, and that he doubts he would if he could.

Jon nods, sheepishly.

And then, before Martin realizes exactly what he’s doing, he takes a long step toward Jon, and wraps them up in a hug. 

* * *

The road up to Scotland is the longest one Martin’s taken his traverse through. Even his commutes before him and his mum lost their house in the suburbs — money issues, of course — have nothing on this. It isn’t the drive he’s afraid of, though. You don’t move around as much Martin, a leaf in the wind, without respecting the road. Hermes and Hecate urging him through the motions. Rent at the beginning of the month, utilities a week after, gas every few days, then a paycheck, a new job every year when his mum inevitably gets worse and the extra two cents an hour makes a difference. Rinse, repeat. 

No, Martin's far more afraid of what comes after.

This isn’t a commute, it’s an escape. Whether they'll be chased by something faster than time and inflation is yet to be seen. Martin's reluctant to hope. So he leans on the hood of his car looking up at Jon’s apartment building, and pushes his thoughts away. London’s foggy this afternoon, which is odd for mid-September, but not unheard of, he supposes.

It strikes Martin then how vast Jon's apartment complex is. He's standing in one of maybe five parking lots he's seen since driving in, and the place extends on for what, in central London, seems like forever. Especially when the fog (thicker now, maybe) obscures everything past the high blocks of concrete with wood tacked on for variety. 

Maybe no one is out today. It's a while 'til rush hour and the weather isn't good enough for families to take a stroll. The lack of people feels familiar, but Martin can't put his finger on it. Then Jon's coming out of their apartment and Martin figures his idle wondering can wait.

"Ready to go?"

Jon doesn't reply, the chunky headphones covering their ears being the likely culprit. So Martin silently pops the trunk, and lets Jon throw in the single backpack they have.

"Not planning to get away from me too soon, I hope," Martin jokes.

Jon doesn't reply.

They get in the car and Martin starts the engine. They're out of London in five minutes, the city must have gotten smaller. Martin laughs at that thought. No, Jon just lives on the outskirts of London, it makes perfect sense that they're on an open road so quickly.

So Martin drives.

He reaches for his phone. There's no other car for miles so the couple swipes it'd take to put his music library on shuffle couldn't hurt. His phone isn't there.

He's broken it.

Yes, he broke his phone getting out of the Institute, he dropped it and stepped on it, surely. How could he forget? 

Martin reaches for the radio, then stops himself. Will Jon judge him for turning on a pop station? Prob–No. Because Jon loves him. They wouldn't judge Martin for something so simple. But they might be irritated. So Martin brings his hand back to the steering wheel and steels himself against the hours of boredom ahead. He glances over to Jon, who's staring out the window, his headphones still on. Martin can hear some of the words now.

_“My eyes are tired, blood pumped with caffeine/_

_This place feels more and more like nowhere to me.”_

The road is foggier when Martin turns back to look, he can see maybe thirty feet in front of the car. Global warming or something? Hell, Martin doesn’t know. The weather’s been odd lately.

When Martin turns back to Jon again, they’ve taken their headphones off, and they rest in their lap.

“How are you doing?” Martin asks, “Want me to put on some music?”

Jon doesn’t reply.

Martin furrows his brow, but it’s not unlike Jon to not want to talk some days, so he lets it drop. He wonders how much longer the road will go on. With visibility this low, Martin might not even see the next turn. He should slow down. Maybe Jon will let Martin borrow his phone, so he can put on a playlist he actually likes. 

When Martin turns to Jon for the third time, they aren’t there. 

Jon’s left him.

But that can't be right at all. Jon wouldn’t leave him. They must have just stepped out for something. 

Martin remembers now, they were going to meet his mother, because he and Jon are dating now. Which means...which means Martin’s transferred back to research to keep with Institute policy, surely. It gets a little Lonely during the day, but – but it isn't all that bad. HR lets Martin visit Jon at tea time. 

Martin reaches for his phone, and unlocks his screen quickly. 

**You: I’ll be in soon <3**

**Jon: No rush <3**

His phone feels odd in his hand.

Martin steps out of the car into the familiar parking lot of the home. It really is foggy today, which is odd for the summer time outside London, but not unheard of. Huh. Maybe they should have come another weekend. His mother would have been upset, but Martin can hardly see his hand in front of his face, and the building is just a shadow somewhere in front of him. Martin isn’t sure how he managed to drive here in this weather. 

No matter, he approaches the door. Where the lobby is usually stuffy, something about being better for the resident's joints, it's now a biting, pervasive cold. Martin only nods to the receptionist, she knows him, and steps towards his mother’s room. The door’s open, their voices floating down the hall.

“I can’t stand that boy.”

“With all due respect, Ms. Blackwood, He’s my boyfriend and _your son_.” 

“How much is he paying you to be here?”

“Our relationship is personal, not professional, you’ll be glad to know.”

Martin starts walking faster. He should have known, should have known better than to let Jon alone with her. She’ll find _something_ to hurt him, she always does. Use her power over you to make you listen through her trial and error until she finally finds that gap in your armor and spears her words through it.

“At least I don’t pretend he's competent.” 

Jon doesn’t reply.

Martin stops, hand on the door frame. They don’t see him.

“Yes, well–” Jon starts.

“Ha! Even you can’t lie about that. Did you start dating him just to get him transferred out of your department?”

“Of course I di–”

“But it was a perk, no?”

Another pause.

Martin turns, walking calmly down the length of the hall, before spinning and jogging back towards the room, bursting in. Jon’s head snaps up, and they search Martin’s face with a guilty expression. They don’t notice Martin’s exaggerating how out of breath he is. Good.

“Deigning us with your presence, finally.” she says.

“Hey mum, how have you been?”

“Having a fine conversation before you got here. We were talking about you.”

“Ah–”

“Only good things.” Jon cuts in. 

Jon and his mother share a look. 

“So how’d you trick him into dating _you_?”

When did the fog get inside? Martin didn’t know it could do that. Well, there’s a first for everything.

“He…” Jon’s voice is muffled under all the moisture in the air between them. It doesn’t come in smoke swirls, but in one thick cloud. Martin got caught outside in the rain once as a child. He remembers hearing the storm approach him from behind and trying to run from it. This time he doesn’t run.

Martin can’t see anything. Grey for eternity, the prick of chill runs up his arms.

“Martin.” 

Then when he turns, Jon is there, holding a bouquet. It makes Martin sad, and it’s only when he sees his mother’s grave that he knows exactly why. Martin reaches out for Jon’s hand.

They don’t take it.

Jon hardly looks at Martin, kneeling in front of the headstone and bowing his head in respect for a moment. He places the flowers down, takes a deep breath, and stands again.

“We should talk, Martin.”

“Okay?” It feels like talking to Jon for the first time in a long time.

“I can’t say I was...entirely honest with you, about everything.” Jon says.

Martin doesn’t reply.

Jon takes another breath, “I went to see your mother more times than I...than I told you about.” 

“Oh. Well that’s not that–”

“We talked a lot.” Jon says, “And she made me realize some things that I don’t think I would have realized on my own. About my...career, and such.”

“Jon?”

“I’m trying to say I’m breaking up with you.”

But that isn’t right. It isn’t right. _It isn’t right_ . Jon _loves_ Martin, he knows this, he knows this and hangs on to that knowledge like a ledge over a chasm. 

For a long moment Martin can’t breathe. The world– the fog, it sucks the air out of his lungs and makes his head go fuzzy. It’s trying to stop his thoughts, Martin knows, and he isn’t going to let it. This is the truth. A fundamental truth.

“They love me.” Martin says, “Jon loves me, they love me, I am loved. I am _in_ love. _I am not alone._ ”

* * *

Martin gasps for air, warm air, from their cottage with the AC on.

“Martin? Martin!”

His arms are around Jon, and it doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t burn. Jon buries their face into Martin's chest, shaking with relieved laughter. Jon’s arms are around Martin, and it feels _good_. Nothing nags at the back of Martin’s mind to savor the moment. Nothing in him screams that this is temporary and Jon is going to leave him. It’s quiet except for the sound of Jon’s laughter. It’s peace.

“Jon.” Martin sobs, and holds them more tightly. God, he might never let go. “They- I- I went back there. I went back and I don’t _ever_ want to go back there but—” 

“I’m here. I’m here.”

“ _I know_ ,” Martin says, and he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.”

“I’m not going to go anywhere either, no matter—” 

“I know, Jon,” And Jon falls silent with a sigh, “I know.” 

_Somewhere near a festival_

_Fountains of red wine_

_But I needn’t find a lover_

_It’s you I stroll ‘longside_

_Though the anchor on your ankles_

_Doesn’t ‘llow you to dance_

_You may observe, my mortal aphrodite..._

_...you need only take my hand_

-</Martin>-

_I want your day to drip from off your lips_

_And into me_

_So I can see you as you are_

_And your life as it can be better_

_I am tired of waiting_

_For the relief of seeing you_

_But stars, is it worth it._

-<>-

Their hips knock together like two pieces of a wind-chime, like it's their purpose, as they do the dishes. Martin's left the music on low in the living room, it burbles in the background.

"Hand me the pan, Jon."

"I'm not done scrubbing!" Jon says, leaning their body between Martin and where they submerge their hands in the soapy water, "Get me the baking soda, I swear I can get it off. I just need more time!"

"For the last time, we are not using the last of the baking soda on this! We could get more if you'd just hurry up so we can head to the shops!" Martin lunges, but Jon pulls the pan out of his reach and flicks the suds onto Martin's face. Martin sputters and shuts his eyes tight.

"No," Jon says wagging a finger, a few more droplets land on Martin's cheeks.

Martin slides his hands against his face to pull the water off and gives Jon his this-isn't-the-end glare. "You're insufferable, more stubborn than Tim."

"You don't mean that." Jon says, turning right back to the pan despite the fact that their arms are clearly at their limit. 

"I do! I remember Tim's face when he went to correct you on those statements that one time? I thought I'd have to pry you two off eachother."

"If he'd stayed in my office much longer I can't say that you wouldn't have." Jon finally lets the sponge fall from their grip. They lean their elbows on the edge of the sink and look to the side at Martin. They take a deep breath. 

"Tim was a good man."

"Mmm...I'm sort of surprised you'd say that."

"Why?"

Martin only raises an eyebrow.

"Fair, I suppose. But still. He was trying, and he wanted me to try too…"

Martin puts a hand on Jon's shoulder, and Jon tilts their head to rest their jaw on the knuckles. "You _were_ trying. Both of you.” Martin says, his tone low, “He just didn't see that very well. I don't think anybody did."

"You did," Jon says, too quickly.

"Yeah...Yeah, I guess I did." Martin places his other hand on Jon's back and guides them into a hug, hiding his face in the crook of Jon's shoulder. "I miss Tim. Before he got so angry."

"I know. I know." Jon says.

They stay there for a moment.

Martin giggles, "Remember how he'd flirt with everyone?"

"Oh, how could I forget? I don't know how he managed to be so aggravatingly respectful. Kept everything above the belt and it was somehow _worse_." Jon wrinkles their nose when they laugh.

"Ha! He did not have that qualm with anyone who wasn’t his boss, let me tell you…" He trails off, wrinkling his nose, "And how he'd keep track of all the birthdays?"

"I saw the folder on his phone where he kept it all. Birthday, favourite food, candy, etc. I think he even got Sasha to help him with it."

"Of course he did. And how if he saw you in the stacks he'd pretend like he was going to kiss you and you had to run away?"

"Excuse me?" Jon says. He pushes on Martin's hips to get a look at his face, but Martin doesn't budge. "That's incredibly– the things you could have knocked over—"

"Oh, sorry. I wouldn't have brought it up, I thought he did it to you too. It was _terrifying_. Like playing tag as a kid triggers a fight-or-flight? 16th fear, Tim Stoker."

"We had very different childhoods." Jon chuckles, this time actually pulling themself out of Martin's embrace, their hand flapping in a blur at their side, "And apparently, a very different archive experience."

"Mm." Martin reaches in to pull the drain on the rinsing sink, wiping his hand on his shirt. "I hope, wherever he is right now, he's happier than when he went out."

Jon takes Martin's hand and gives it a squeeze. 

"Me too."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin get what they DESERVE.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No TWs. Literally just cute shit. I got 10 cavities doing a final passover to cavity warning. I guess. Try not to barf. It's gratuitous.  
> Apologies for formatting issues in advance, as I am in a car.

  
_I wish I could take your hand and pull you through the exhale into warm, red tea._   
_Show you the art on the walls in trying not to chew on the bitters_   
_And white fog on gray glasses, unminded_   
_Because you’re seeing with your eyes closed_

_The cavernous space in my heart feeling like hands-on-hands, like a stage_   
_My empty skull like a park bench to linger on,_   
_A foot-lighted path_

-<Jon>-

Jon steps out of the bedroom, his skin buzzing pleasantly with the feeling of a shower at just the right temperature. He's wearing his favorite sweatpants, the ones that make his legs feel like two burritos and, according to Martin, make his butt look good. There's a graphic of a mug on his shirt and a smirk on his face.

Martin is toweling his hair off and counting tote bags when Jon walks into the living room, black curls damp and pointing up in all directions. He smiles at Jon when he finishes counting as Jon grabs his zip-up from where it's thrown on the coach. It still smells like Martin's car, and Martin is here, attention now on pulling his shirt down over his binder, his hair mostly dried. Jon's toes curl in his socks. This is nice. This is perfect.

This is maybe a little creepy as Jon watches Martin's belly disappear under the cotton.

Martin clicks his tongue, scooping up the totes, "Jon, put your coat on please. It's cold outside."

"It's not like I can get cold, really." Jon says, he taps the space under his eye, arching his back unnecessarily with the movement.

"And do you want the whole village to know that?"

That gives Jon pause. So Martin hadn't noticed. Plan B, then:

He stretches his arms above his head, letting his shoulders crack like a wood board at a kid's karate tournament. Martin looks, like Jon knew he would, at the stretch of skin where his shirt lifts up. They're both the same. (At least Jon is somewhat subtle with his watching.)

"What are you doing, Jon?" Martin asks, amused.

"I have no clue what you're talking about."

"I know you're doing a thing, I just don't know what."

"I told you i'm-"

"Jon."

"Martin."

They stare.

Martin is a patient man, Jon knows, standing with his arms crossed and one eyebrow ticked upward. Feet planted without a single intention to budge.

_It’s hot inside my head_   
_And you’re the glass of water_   
_Sitting by my bed_

_You’re the quiet music_   
_In a loud room_   
_When all I want to hear is you_

The standoff continues.

_I wish I could take you, and pull you so close you phase right through me_   
_Feeling every tentative emotion_   
_Like the spaces between lines between_   
_Thread-bound pages_

Jon's grateful for Martin's patience, grateful he had someone who stuck with him through his years of self-repression, who defended him even when it was doubtful he deserved it. And doubtful is a heinous understatement. In working with the lonely, Martin was willing to leave Jon behind to keep him, and everyone, safe. In a weird way, a deeper way, Jon is grateful for that too.

But, when push comes to shove, Jon can out-wait him. Even if by seconds. Martin got a break most days after 5pm. Jon just had to live with himself.

Martin huffs, shifting from one foot to another, and Jon knows he's won. It helps to be the one who doesn't actually need groceries, as he doesn't need to eat anymore. Martin finally breaks eye contact, and reaches to put on his shoes, rolling his eyes at himself when he realizes his arms are full of tote bags and not free to tie the laces.

Jon puts his hands behind his head, and pushes his elbows back. A small ache in his shoulder blades tenses and then disappears. Jon tilts his ears to either shoulder, letting out a small groan of effort. He doesn't wink as much as he opens one eye to look at Martin–on one knee, hands over his sneakers–who's staring at Jon like he's a puzzle that needs to be undone. Nose and brow wrinkled slightly, ears red.

"Is it your shirt?" Martin asks.

"Might be."

Martin squints at the unassuming graphic, a little mug sloshing brown liquid over it's brim with a cute face exclaiming 'Tea!'. He blinks. And then groans.

"Get out of my house, Jon."

"It's a tea-shirt!" Jon says, thoroughly pleased with himself.

"I almost miss the sweater vests." Martin zips up his own coat. He grabs Jon's from the rack and throws it. Jon shrieks, flinching as the coat hits him with a soft "pap!".

-</Jon>-

_I want to show you steamy-headed, well-practiced relaxation,_   
_When time is as slow as a dehydrated brain_   
_And inhaling a cup tea, bitters and all_   
_Child like. Nose-in-cup. Smiling into warmth_   
_Like smiling between another’s lips._

-<Martin>-

Martin rushes to pile the totes into his arms before Jon can pull on his coat and get revenge. The green one from the 5k he didn't run, and one with a nice design from a soup kitchen he volunteered at. His favorite is mostly plain and handwoven, with one of those fruit designs you sometimes see on Italian pottery embroidered on the center. Martin bought it at a fair after he got a bonus for a good performance review. A review, he only just realizes, that Jon gave.

Jon.

Jon stares at his coat on the floor, an expression of shock on his face. It's cute. He moves slowly to prod the coat with his foot.

"Jon?"

He doesn't say anything, bending to pick it up. He pulls at the threads, which don't budge, and runs his palm over the polyurethane shell.

"This isn't my coat," Jon says, finally looking up.

Martin hums, "I got paid extra for the admin work I was doing. Bought it for you while you were...out."

"Martin!" Jon's tone is scolding. Playfully so.

"What?"

"My old coat worked just fine, thank you. You shouldn't have spent your money on me."

"It had holes in it, Jon. It rains in London, you know."

Jon pouts as he slips the coat on over his jacket.

Anyone else would confuse it for a genuine frown, but Martin knows. When he's really upset, Jon's eyebrows come together more than they go down, and he's careful to keep his lips tucked in. When he pouts, the bottom lip protrudes ever so slightly, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Jon uses eye contact like a bargaining chip when he wants something. And it works. When Jon looks at Martin, he feels seen, and he sees Jon. All of his heroism roughly hewn from terrible circumstances, all of his scars that carved away at that heroism — burned, and scratched and gnawed at but never broke it — all of his quiet ways of showing love and irritation. Martin knows Jon sees him just the same. Being known right back, for the first time in Martin's life, is the cherry on top of loving Jon.

"Is there something wrong with me getting you a coat?" Martin shouldn't sound as hopelessly endeared as he does, but the coat is a size or two overlarge, as Jon's previous one was, so he could sneak his work out of the building and home with him, and the way his fingertips barely emerged from the sleeves makes Martin want to kiss them all, one by one.

Jon mumbles something.

"I can't hear you, sweetheart."

"I thought it was Strange, okay?" Jon says, and then his eyes go big and his lips press together in the way that means he doesn't want to say the wrong thing.

"Like from The Stranger? I bought it for you, does that mean I'm-" Martin wiggles his fingers in a gesture that vaguely means ‘Spooky’. He keeps his tone light, only half joking.

"Don't be ridiculous. I'd know your face anywhere. " Jon snaps, cheeks going dark. His shoulders tense, and then, embarrassed, he slips past, grabbing the car keys off the hook by the door, and slipping outside.

Martin flinches, but the door doesn't slam. It clicks shut, leaving Martin alone with his thoughts.

Jon's words come to him first, and Martin covers his little delighted smile with his fist, pressing his knuckles into his face and breathing a long exhale. Then Martin realizes what he said.

He buries his face into the bundle of tote bags because oh.

He'll have to go out there. Martin can't let Jon wait out in the car for the time it will take for his cheeks to stop burning. He'll just have to face Jon.

He'll just have to face his sweetheart, Jon.

A little, happy sound comes from Martin's throat, and he's glad no one's there to tease him for it.

He strides to the mirror by the door, running one hand through his hair. It sticks up like he just got out of bed, but relatively neatly. He looks good today. He'd call himself a ladykiller, but the term's hilariously inaccurate. Martin checks his collar one last time, his mother always got on him for that, and dances out the front door, smiling like a fool. He's off to see his sweetheart.

His sweetheart.

-</Martin>-

_I want to hide my slow, syrupy nights, thoughts like orobos_   
_Meaningless aches in the ghosts_   
_Of overworked joints, a heady projection_

_It is the road by which you get to paradise,_   
_A sum of time spent over-thinking_   
_And grasping at the front of your night-shirt_   
_Stifling gasps as unpleasant fantasy rips tears from lashes_

-<>-

"I'm telling you, I saw the shops on our way in, they're over here."

"But the map says-"

"Jon, that map is as old as Daisy. Things move around. Just ask the Eye and you'll know I'm right."

Jon slouches in his seat, letting the map fall flat, "That isn't the point. I'm the navigator, I should be able to navigate."

Martin laughs, "Darling, it's alright. If you're bored go ahead and pick the music."

"I'll pick the music, alright," Jon grumbles, tucking his chin into himself.

"If the pet names upset you I'll s-"

"Don't you dare."

Martin hums happily.

A beat.

"Are you going through my phone?"

"No."

"-like, I wouldn't really mind, but maybe ask? Oh. Wait. Okay."

Jon sighs, "I won't ever go through your phone, I don't have a reason to. You just have-" he swipes angrily, "-far too many playlists."

"You can't have too many playlists."

"Normally I'd agree." Jon squints at the phone, his reading glasses left behind, "This one's just called Jon."

Martin starts going red again.

"I'm playing it."

"Okay."

Martin grips the wheel tight, but relaxes when the first notes hit his ears. Truth is, he has two Jon playlists, though Martin doesn't remember the name of the other one. He's glad they're playing the more mundane of the two, the only he hadn't still listened to when working under Peter Lukas. He smiles with the familiarity of the song, humming along. Martin takes an inhale on cue-

_“Hold on Loose, Don't grip me so tight/_   
_I've got no wings to fly but This spirit's taking flight/_   
_So tonight, we'll dance/_   
_Let's pretend we rule this town/ In tomorrow's dawn,/_   
_I'll be long gone/_   
_Long gone, long gone.”_   
_-Long Gone, by Phim_ _Viphurit_

"Martin," Jon says, breathless, "Babe."

Martin gives him a look that melts from reassuring to endeared. "Babe? You hardly seem like a 'babe' kind of man."

"You did meet me when I was the most stressed I've been in most my life. Who's to say I wasn't the office flirt."

"Uh, everybody?" Martin laughs. He puts his eyes back on the road, but he's grinning, the corners of his mouth quivering as he continues.

_“Don't hold me loose, please grip me tight/_   
_My lungs are paper dry, From fear of losing sight/_   
_Take my palms, we'll build a wall around this town/_   
_In tomorrow's dawn, you'll be long gone/_   
_Long gone, long gone.”_

When Martin glances over, Jon's face is buried in his hands.

"You did that on purpose. That song, you did it on purpose. " Jon says.

Martin barks a laugh, "I guess I did, yes. You could always change the it."

Jon only grumbles. He bites his bottom lip on a smile as he looks down at his hands, scrolling through the options.

The next one plays, Martin doesn't know the words and neither does Jon. They drive in silence for a while before Martin turns the volume down.

"You really don't mind?" Martin says.

Jon hums sleepily, turning his head from where he was looking out at the scottish countryside, "Don't mind what?"

"The pet names and such. Sweetheart."

Jon smiles, "I don't mind at all. Do you? Baby."

Martin makes a sound like "Hmpk!" And clears his throat.

"No-I-don't-mind-at-all." He breathes. "You have a very nice voice."

Jon chuckles, and Martin revels in the molasses sound of it.

"No one's ever called me...Nobody's ever called me, ah, that before." Martin says, wringing his hands against the leather.

This offends Jon. Deeply. "Excuse me? Why the hell not?"

"I've just never-"

"No, Martin. You're precious. You're- You're- Martin."

"Mhm!" Martin says, his chest hurting with the pressure of it. Like love makes his organs swell up as they desperately try to process and store it, never getting enough.

Jon puts his hand on Martin's arm.

"You're mine, Martin. And not in the ownership kind of way— I just, I- look. I'm not good at this but you're, Martin, babe, you are an important piece in my life and I'd be different without you. I don't know how, but I know. I know. And you're important to me but you're also important period. You bring good and beauty-"

"Stop! Stop stop stop!" Martin giggles, wiping tears from his eyes, "I can't do this right now, I'm gonna cry and I can't cry while I'm driving."

'Well...You're pretty." Jon teases.

"Stop!"

-<>-

_But if you ever arrive I will be waiting_   
_In the quick brush of fingertips,_   
_Cradled within headphone-stuffed ears_   
_And, I assume, within you._


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon go shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for, regarding tickling cause i'd never write that, non-son/dub-con? Like when you say "stop" when someone's tickling you. I dunno if that's a TW but better safe than sorry. Stay safe. Also you might wanna note that this chapter is heavy on the fun writing and light on the good writing. IF you don't just wanna roll with it, maybe this one ain't for you.

##  Chapter Three

_ I’m happy to have you again after months of wondering _

_ Squealing over the stove, hands on my face, as memories _

_ Sprint across my view (I imagine they run off to you) _

_ (and when they do, they carry little tags that say my name, _

_ Explain politely why your ears burn, and that you can embrace me again _

_ When this is all over) _

-<Jon>-

Jon stares, knowing full well Martin is pretending not to notice, as they pull up to the village in comfortable silence. The blush on his cheeks is a permanent fixture now, like a painting they bought together up in the same spot on the wall every day. It says welcome home. It determines the color scheme of the room. A rosy hue.

The store fronts are all brick and white plaster, Mud crawls up their faces from speeding cars spraying it up in high arcs, and wooden signs swing on wrought iron holders. The air is thick with the threat of rain, but it isn't quite drizzling yet. This doesn't stop the people from being out and about. A little girl decked out in rain gear is stomping away at a puddle with a vengeance while her mother either screams enthusiastically at, or is telling a dramatic story to, a florist. Jon can't tell.

Martin makes a pleased sound, his cheeks forming a perfect curve under his eyes.

Jon feels himself smiling too, "Enjoying your ' _ lo-fi charm _ '?" 

"I am, thank you," Martin says primly. "Keep an eye out for the grocers for me, they'll be on your side."

"Yessir."

"And if you see any clothing stores you like we'll stop there too. You need more stuff."

"What's wrong with what I have?"

"Jon, you packed for two and a half days. I'm  _ not _ doing that much laundry."

"I don't mind doing the laundry as long as I don't have to do the dishes."

"I don't mind taking care of those." Martin says, giving Jon a sideways grin. The light catches off his nose and makes the slope of it seem more delicate than it is, Jon doesn't care, really, all he knows is that his beautiful boyfriend has a beautiful smile and he wants to kiss it. He would if they weren't driving. Maybe they should pull over.

"Oh! Um! On your right." Jon says, pulling his eyes away. He taps his finger on the window in the direction of the grocer and it's a twelve-stalled parking lot. 

"Distracted are we?" Martin teases.

"No, I- No-"

"Ah, sorry. Quiet for a sec while I park."

Jon closes his mouth. It is, admittedly, a squeeze in their Traverse. Martin pokes his tongue out of the corner of his mouth, biting down on it softly, and his arm stretches to sit behind Jon's headrest. The whole ordeal makes Martin look a peculiar combination of open and imposing. Another new angle Jon has the privilege of seeing Martin from. Delightfully domestic. Jon leans a little into Martin's side. 

Martin drives like he does most things, with the skill of someone who didn't learn by choice, but by necessity. It was one of the many things that stuck out about Martin when they met, that Jon felt drawn to and therefore took extra care to push away. Martin had a livelihood rather than a job, they may have been the only two in the building who lived like that, scrambling for air. 

Not anymore.

When Martin shifts into park, his expression returns to false-exasperation. "You were saying?"

Jon doesn't have a reply to that, so he pinches Martin instead. He won't feel it through the coat, but Martin winces anyways, for dramatic affect.

Jon makes his escape, feeling the rush of damp air on his face. He grabs the tote bags from the back seat before Martin can insist on doing all the work. Martin holds the door, so they're even.

The store has low ceilings and yellow lights, feeling darker than it is, though Jon can see just fine. It's homey. Nobody's behind the register, but the sign says they're open, and there's a bell for when they'll need the help.

"How about you grab the necessities, milk and bread and such, and I'll do the rest. I know what you like."

"Do you now?"

"I do. Whatever brand of earl grey has the most bergamot and hibiscus with lemon on bad sinus days and ginger nuts and crusty...bread– that isn't what you meant, is it?"

Jon chuckles.

Martin steps towards the dairy aisle, red-faced, and Jon steps after him.

Martin gives him a look, "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

"Oh? Excuse  _ you _ , stranger, I am making my way to the milk." Jon says, drawing himself up and trying to keep a grin off of his face.

"Apologies sir," Martin says, stepping conspicuously farther into Jon's path. "I'll just be out of your way."

"Thank you," Jon says, and walks directly into Martin, burying his face into the crook of Martin's shoulder. He hums, contentedly.

"Stop! Stop, Jon that tickles! You need to  _ shave _ . Grab some razors, christ." Martin's hand presses up against Jon's face, making Jon burst into giggles. Jon takes a half-step back, beaming up at Martin.

"Your face is warm," Martin whispers, reverently.

Jon wraps his fingers around Martin's wrist, pressing into his palm, "Mhm?"

"Yeah," He says, breathless. "Darling, we need to get going, come on."

Jon doesn't get going, instead sliding his hand down Martin's other arm, taking his hand and-

Someone clears their throat.

Jon doesn't jump back, and Martin doesn't pull away, but they both turn to the little rosy cheeked old man smiling at them. Martin puts on what Jon knows to be his customer service smile, his eyebrows lifting ever so slightly at the outside corners betray his irritation. Jon doesn't bother with pretenses, he glares.

"Can I help you?" Martin asks with false cheer.

"I suppose so! I'm Griogiar, I haven't seen either of you around?"

"Oh yes, we just moved in. Kevin." Martin pulls away, ignoring Jon's grumbled protests, to offer Griogiar a hand.

The man wraps both hands around Martin's and shakes, his smile never faltering. "Reminds me of my late husband, he does, mhm." Griogiar thrusts his chin toward Jon.

Martin drops the act in an instant, a genuine smile splitting his face like Christmas came early. He catches himself, "I'm very sorry for your loss." he says, and then, smiling softly, "Tell me about him?"

Griogiar manages to grin even brighter, eyes going to slits under the force of his smile. "Of course, Martin dearie."

"My name is-"

"Aht!" he grabs Martin's wrist and begins gently tugging him away, "He just adored my tablet. I just made a batch, in fact. You should try some."

Martin shoots Jon a smile that's excited and more than a little helpless as he's dragged away. 

Griogiar stops short at the very end of the aisle, he turns to Jon. "Mr. Sims, I See." He winks, and pulls Martin pulls of sight.

Jon deflates. Martin's hand was  _ soft _ . Sure, he'll have Martin the rest of the day, but Jon would like him  _ now _ , thank you. He can't help but feel like  _ his _ person was stolen from him. 

But Martin can make his own choices, Jon doesn't own him, so Jon grabs a carton of two-percent and stomps off to find the razors. He isn't sulking at all, nope, no-siree.

He does reach for the nice brand of razors, though, the ones with a close shave, because Martin will like it. Maybe he'll even grow a goatee. Hm.

"On your left, son." says a gruff voice. Jon steps away to let another old man restock the aftershave. He's taller, and darker than Griogiar, with stately moles gracing his face and a roguish beard gracing his chin. He finishes putting the bottles onto the shelf quickly, and then turns to Jon, not saying anything.

A beat.

"Hm. You work here?" Jon asks, gesturing at his apron.

"Own the place." He says shortly. His expectant gaze doesn't cease.

"Griogiar's boss, then? He's a very good employee. Stole my boyfriend off to who-knows-where."

The man snorts. "Nothing to worry about there. I'm his husband."

"Name's Brett."

"Uìdean. Nice to meet you, Jon."

Jon huffs. The two seem more than harmless (and not at all powerful by comparison) but they could at least be courteous. He pays it no mind.

A beat.

Jon thinks 

"I'm aware it isn't polite to ask if you're a ghost but-"

Uìdean sighs  _ loudly _ , cutting Jon short. He settles his hands on his hips and  _ hollers _ , "Stop telling folk I'm dead!"

"Sometimes I think I can still hear his voice." Griogiar says, sounding wistful even as he yells back. Martin's shocked laughter follows closely behind, Making Jon feel warm in his chest.

"That man." Jon and Uìdean say in unison. They give each other half a chuckle.

"We know memes," Uìdeans says, finding this relevant. Pride edges on his voice.

"Oh, me too."

A beat.

Uìdean gives the first small smile of their conversation. "Well tell me if you need anything, son. I'll be around."

"Actually." Jon says, "I'm going to be spending a lot of time at...home, I suppose. You wouldn't know a good way to pass the time?"

Uìdean waves Jon over, "In the back. Come see."

-</Jon>-

I weave myself from the threads

Of other’s stories

I redye them, then

Form the tapestry of me

But I will note take your threads

And if i do, ne’er recolor them

Darling, sit with me at the loom

See and touch the inner workings,

My hand over yours

-<Martin>-

Martin almost lets Jon pile his gardening supplies in the trunk on his own, but he caves at Jon's first flustered glance. It's not like he's flawless here either, Martin thinks, as he piles two bags of homemade tablet on top of it all.

"They got us good." Jon remarks. 

"Yuuup."

Martin slides into the front seat while Jon closes the trunk. He kneads at the steering wheel while he waits for Jon to buckle up. The question bursts from his lips before he considers it fully.

"Do you think we'll be like that?"

"Like what?" Jon asks, flicking through a farmers almanac. 

"Oh, like...you know. Old, wrinkly...Happy."

Jon puts the book down, giving Martin a look that heats him to the core. "If you'll have me." and he undoes his seatbelt to lean over and give a startled Martin a kiss on the nose. "Anything, babe."

Martin curls in on himself a bit, humming happily. Jon pokes him on the side and he yelps.

"Jon!"

"Sorry, what was that?" Jon says innocently. 

When Martin cracks an eye open, Jon's shifted to free both hands for the tickling.

"Don't you  _ dare. _ "

"What?" A jab.

"Ah! Stop!" Martin pushes Jon away with a few soft baps on the forehead, in quick succession, and Jon collapses back into his seat, laughing.

Jon's arms are crossed over his belly, and he's doubled over. His hair spills over his face in a coiled cascade of gray and black. Jon's voice is deep, basso, or maybe a Baritone, Martin isn't quite sure the ranges. All he knows is that Jon laughs like the sound of dark mahogany furniture, like drawn curtains, like still pools, like nice things at twilight. 

Jon always angles his shoulders towards Martin when he laughs, like a compass. Pointing right at joy. 

Martin should write that down.

"You're staring." Jon teases.

Martin baps him again.

They drive around the village until they find a store that looks promising. Home goods on one end and clothing on the other. 

They both dive to hold the door open, Shoulders crashing together, but Jon ultimately wins, gesturing for Martin to pass with a bow too deep for Jon's old hips. Martin hides his embarrassment under a regal expression, chin raised high, and pulls out his wallet to hand Jon a five. Jon tosses it back in his face.

This store has a more open layout, and brighter, white lights. The far wall is an accent of herringbone-laid wood in a variety of colors. 

Jon presses close to Martin's side as they stand just inside the door. Martin gives Jon his hand, and squeezes once, earning another smile. (He will put it right there in his good memories box, next to the image of Jon with bedhead.) 

Looking confident now, Jon surveys the room in a quick sweep, then makes a beeline for the porcelain, tugging Martin along.

"Yellow vase." Jon says. He goes to pick it up, realizes he'd have to let go of Martin's hand to do so, and settles for pointing. "It's very pretty."

"Where'd we even put it?"

"Center of the kitchen table." Jon says, with a tone like it's obvious. He took that tone back when they were in the archives, always magically knowing where things go and why. Or, as Martin realized towards the end, pretending to. But Jon catches himself. "I mean, it could go by the entryway as well. We could get fake flowers to put in it while I grow roses?"

Martin squeezes his hand again. "Sure."

They don't have a cart, so Jon puts it back to get to later. He looks to Martin, who takes the hint.

The store is full of nice things, and there's a section in the corner for what might be original pieces by local artists that Martin is  _ definitely _ going to check out later, but he opts for the bedding section, as that's something they'll actually need. Jon follows him with the ease only trust creates.

"Look for cotton sets with a comforter." Martin says, letting go of Jon's hand slowly. Jon listens to his instructions with a serious expression. "And go for a high thread count too, why not? we have the money."

"And something in black." Jon adds, very interested in the floor tiling all of a sudden. (To be fair, it is nice tiling.)

"Hm?" Martin asks, "Is black your favourite?"

Jon shakes his head. " No, yousndmaks."

"You'll have to speak up dear."

"It'll be easier to see you against black." Jon says. He clears his throat, and turns his back to Martin, sorting through the bedding sets with a determination only an embarrassed Jon Sims could have.

Martin tries to suppress his laugh, but a high squeak comes out anyways. He nudges Jon down the row with his hip and starts looking too.

"What counts as a high thread count?" Jon asks.

"You could Know."

"I could." Jon says. When Martin doesn't answer, he sighs, "I'm trying to make conversation. I like talking to you."

Martin puts a hand on his chest, feigning surprise, "Really? That's kind of embarrassing, sweetheart."

Jon bumps Martin with his hip, but he's smiling again, which is all that matters.

"Five hundred or more." Martin laughs, "Not over a thousand, though, christ. I'd just feel bad."

"Why?"

Martin blinks. He wasn't expecting the question. 

He thinks for a moment.

"I know," Martin begins, "I  _ know _ I can have nice things now, and we can afford it and such, it just… wasn't like that when I grew up. I'm still getting used to it, but I draw the line at excess."

He expects Jon to say something, tensing to prepare for the impact of it. 'I know.' or 'I understand', when Jon  _ doesn't _ understand, he grew up in a big house with his grandmother and went to  _ Oxford. _ And there's nothing wrong with that, of course, it's an amazing thing. But Jon doesn't  _ know _ . He wasn't seventeen crying over the water bill while his mother berated him. He wasn't cleaning hallways after hours, wishing he could be those students stumbling drunk around campus and having  _ friends _ .

But Jon doesn't say a word. He reaches over, and gives Martin's hand a single, long squeeze, then moves to gesture at two sets of sheets, one black and one pale green, with thick comforters and a five hundred thread count, looking supremely pleased with himself.

Martin thinks he might cry.

Jon's head snaps up at Martin's first sniffle, wide-eyes searching Martin's face in a panic. Martin smiles, it's small, weak, but it isn't forced. Jon relaxes instantly, and loops his arms around Martin's waist.

Martin holds him close like that, Jon's face against his chest, and snuggles into Jon's hair. It smells like cherries. It's safe.

-</Martin>-

_ You do the dishes while I pour the wine _

_ I fold the laundry and you check the time, _

_ Say you'll be home by nine, _

_ in the morning, _

_ Darling you're looking devine _

_ I take the trash out, and you mop the floors _

_ I read my novels, you're looking for more, _

_ while you're still young, you go and explore, _

_ I'll keep the stove on low, I don't mind _

_ I'll be the rock if you'll be the whirlwind, _

_ I'll write the lyrics if you play guitar, _

_ I'll hold you close if you hold me right back, _

_ and you can go anywhere, but please not far _

-<>-

"You guys need help? You look a little lost."

They are, in fact, a lot lost.

The clothing section doesn't seem organized into any discernible pattern, though size markers section off some of the racks, both Martin and Jon agree, it's a  _ lot _ .

Jon turns to the teenage girl who walks out from behind the register. "Yes, thank you. That'd be very helpful…"

"Tessa. Everyone calls me Tess, though." She smacks her chewing gum and pulls a rack of evening dresses to the side. The space instantly looks more manageable. "Sorry it's such a mess, Mum just had the baby, you know how it is."

Martin and Jon nod, pretending to know how it is.

"So what are you looking for?"

Jon talks to Tess, but he faces Martin like he's unsure of himself. Martin knows he isn't, just anxious, and a little oblivious as to how to keep himself warm. Martin's had to give Jon his coat for the night more than a few times back when they were in the archives. Hey, wait a minute– "A few long-sleeved tee shirts, and pants too."

"Long Johns," Martin adds.

Jon snaps his fingers, "Yes! that. Some flannel wouldn't hurt, pajamas as such. Sweaters and...I wouldn't suppose you have a sweater vests."

Tessa nods, "We do." 

"And, ah, I wouldn't mind a few skirts."

"Winter skirts." Martin says, "We can get summer ones later."

"Winter skirts," Jon confirms.

Tessa smiles, leaning against the rack she moved, "So you just need everything." It isn't a question.

Then she grins will all the ferocity of someone who can't drive finally being given the reigns.

"Martin!"

"How do you know my-"

"Griogiar told me. You. In the back

Sweater duty. You know his sizes?"

"Of course."

"Then  _ go _ ! I wanna have a lunch break, thank you very much."

Martin turns to Jon, who's grinning from ear to ear.

'This is what you're like.' He mouths.

'I know.' Jon mouths back.

Martin lets himself be shooed toward the back, waving goodbye until he disappears behind a corner.

Tess spins on Jon, her teeth may or may not be longer than they were before. Huh.

"Let's do this."

They quickly discover that Jon doesn't like warm colors, anything from yellow to red is swiftly declined, though pink stays on the table, with the exception of one bright red bomber jacket, which Martin held up as a joke. Jon snatches it and throws it on the 'to be tried' rack with inhuman speed.

Tess thrusts a pair of boots in Jon's arms, "You're gonna need these."

"I didn't ask for-"

"Do you have a pair already?" She asks. Jon shakes his head. "You're gonna need them. Thank me when it snows."

At one point, the woman who was mad at the florist steps in. She gives Tessa a fearful look, (Tessa silently replies with what could be called smugness), picks up her child, and leaves.

Now, Tess and Martin sit on the bench outside the dressing room, dramatically holding hands like they're waiting for the doc to give them the news. Tessa has a sandwich in her other hand, she wasn't joking about the lunch break.

"Come on out, Jon! strut your stuff!"

"Mhm! One moment." 

The sounds of a zipper, then a bang.

"You okay in there, sweetheart?"

"I'm fine, thank you!"

Jon stands with his feet nearly peeking out the bottom on the stall. Martin recognises that stance from when he stayed in the archives. How Jon stood when late nights rolled over into incredibly early mornings, and Jon fiddled with his tie in the bathroom while Martin brushed his teeth. Eventually, Jon gave in and let Martin tie it.

"Do you need help?"

"It was supposed to be a surprise." Jon sighs, "Yes."

Tessa covers her eyes with one hand and takes another bite with the other.

It's a lace-up hoodie, cut coming down to the center of Jon's chest, where Martin sees the clear evidence of Jon trying, and failing, to pull it closed. 

Martin makes quick work of pulling the two sides together, row by row. It was meant to be worn looser, but that's clearly not how Jon wants it. He ties a double looped bow at the top, just because. 

Martin let's his fingers dust the curve of Jon's jaw as he steps back to get a look. Jon's eyes are closed, and he still  _ desperately _ needs a shave, but his neck slopes gracefully down into the hoodie that's overly large for Jon's frame in all the right ways. The bottom hangs loose just over halfway down Jon's thigh, a length, Martin notes as particularly interesting, that means Jon would be comfortable in the sweater-dress alone. Jon is, however, wearing sweatpants underneath, (Jonathan Sims, the  _ archivist _ in _ sweatpants _ ? Who would have thought.) Because they have a lot for him to try on and everyone is getting a little tired of their taking over the Home goods store.

Jon blinks up at Martin from under thick eyelashes, and they're  _ so _ close. "Good?"

"Good! Yes!" Martin breathes, too quickly, as he fiddles with the bow more, "We're getting this one, mhm! I mean– if you  _ like it _ and you're  _ comfortable– _ "

Jon put his hand over Martin's pressing it to his chest. Jon's heart beats steady and slow. He takes a deep breath, which Martin matches.

"We're getting this one." Jon repeats, certain. 

Jon dances back into the dressing room, rolling and flapping his hands at at the wrists and humming to himself, and leaving poor Martin staring after him, dumbstruck.

Jon doesn't come out and show them every outfit, mostly just checking things fit comfortably. He holds a few pairs of bottoms over the stall for Tessa to take away when they're too short, and loudly scoffs of the muscle shirt Martin slipped in amongst the rest of his stuff as a joke.

"You wish!" Jon says.

The last time Jon emerges, he's wearing a long, fleece-lined skirt that just barely sits above the rubber soles of his new snow-boots, and he's got a mischievous grin on his face that makes Martin pocket his phone immediately.

"Skirt, yes?" Jon says, doing a half twirl in either direction.

"...Yes."

"But!" Jon exclaims, and he sticks out a leg and pulls the skirt up to his knee, revealing an empty leather holster strapped to his shin. "Eh? Eh?"

"Yeh!" Martin says, "You could put a knife in there, I think!"

"I was thinking more, like, a spade, for when I garden?" Jon replies, raising an eyebrow.

"Or a gun." Tessa says.

"Why would I have a gun?"

"I dunno. Griogiar just winked and that means either you're also gay or you have a gun. I assumed both, to stay on the safe side."

Neither of them are sure how to reply to that, so they don't.

Tess, bless her, scanned their items as they went along, so check out is fast. The three of them make quick work of stuffing clothes into their few remaining tote bags, leaving the few articles that don't fit loose.

Martin nearly faints when he sees their total, and Jon has to remind him that this is a one-time purchase and they're financially  _ okay _ .

"I feel kind of bad using Peter's card, though."

"Then let  _ me _ use it. He's dead anyway, what does he care?"

Tessa pretends not to notice that conversation. In return, Jon doesn't mention when she slips a pack of boxer briefs and wools socks into their bags.

"I'd help you carry it all our but my coat is  _ all _ the way over there, see–"

Jon laughs, "It's no problem. Thanks for all your help."

"Mhm! Come again! Spend this much two more times and I'll be able to afford a car like that." she snaps, "And baby-money doesn't hurt either."

"Tell your mum I said good luck with all of that!" Martin says cheerily, and he pushes the door open with his back, arms full, and walks out to the car. Jon follows closely behind. They don't bother with the trunk, and put their stuff in the backseat.

"How are we feeling?" Martin asks.

"Cold. Ask me again when the AC is on."

Martin obliges," So?" he asks, pulling back onto the main road.

Jon looks out at the village, covered in pale blue shadows despite the time. A storm's coming in, they were right to leave now. The buildings fade into farmland, snow starting to sprinkle softly from the sky. 

Jon looks towards Martin, the light isn't flattering but the rosy color in his cheeks still holds strong. Jon feels a wave of happiness bubble up and tense in his shoulders. His foot snaps straight, and he lets his leg bounce, humming short notes that run up and down scales. Martin rests one hand on Jon's. It bounces harder.

_ In the wind we stand in _

_ The pine trees shiver _

_ As if hiding in their green _

_ That the cold makes them mortal _

_ And I feel for them  _

_ The palms trees thunder _

_ Trying to scare me away _

_ As if they know they _

_ Don’t belong here too _

_ And I feel for them _

"I just want to go home." Jon says, "With you."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cuddle time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh. This fic was complete when I wrote it but Shit Happened so now you get the last two chapters at once I hope you like them. I've also finished my horrendous spacing habit so enjoy not having eons between each paragraph. 
> 
> once again reminding y'all I wrote this poetry cause some of it slaps and I'm proud of it <3

_ I don’t think love requires slowness _

_ I don’t think it’s all in small moments _

_ I needn’t make romance out of your laugh _

_ That’s inherent in the fibres of you _

_ No kind of love must be a dance _

_ No hesitance or avoidance required _

_ Just the snow-plot understanding of tired _

_ People deciding to love _

-<Jon>-

"Leave them, Jon." Martin says. He's collapsed on the couch, and Jon can't blame him. The four steps up to their front door seem innocent enough, until you're making enough trips to transport the contents of a relatively well-stocked kitchen and then some.

"Don't give me that look. The rest can wait until the snow stops."

"But my boots,." Jon says, shifting from foot to foot. He was really looking forward to sleeping in his flannel pajamas tonight, which is his real reason for going back out to the car. Like a hallmark movie. Perfect in the American White kind of way, which is, admittedly, a nice way for things to be perfect sometimes.

"You can get them–"

"Yes, I will walk outside in my non-waterproof shoes, to get my waterproof shoes  _ after _ the frozen water coats the ground."

Martin sighs, "Yeah, alright." He sinks deeper into the raggedy sofa, "Will you need me for that?"

Jon walks over with long strides, his knees locking in his excitement and then bending before his feet hit the ground. He rests his hand on Martin's shoulder and places a kiss on his forehead. "No. You just rest, I'll be right back." 

Martin sighs again, soft this time, contented. 

Jon walks to the shoe rack and slips his feet into Martin's boots. He's well aware that it defeats his argument, but the boots, several sizes too large and then broken in from several months of use from Martin (he bought them to keep his feet warm in the lonely, but they don't talk about that. It's a damned good pair of boots and they're keeping Peter's name as far from it in association as they can.) make a cl–op-ing sound every time Jon takes a step that makes his brain erupt in happy, buzzing feelings.

"Darling?" Martin calls.

Jon clop-clop-clops back over to him.

Martin holds up his hands in the shape of a heart, closing his eyes the way he does to “'Show trust, I suppose?' as he smiles at Jon.

Jon's hands flap about in front of him, "Thank you!" He says, and turns back to the door.

The wind has picked up, sSnow sticking to Jon's stubble. The cold usually bothers Jon, making his joints ache (So what if he 'forgot' his jacket at home all the time? He got to wear Martin's jacket. He would do it again. He  _ will _ do it again, probably.) But he's warmed up since they carried the groceries in, both physically and metaphorically. Jon wraps his coat tighter around himself, the coat Martin bought him, (Cool, cool, coolcoolcool) and then remembers to actually zip it up. He's extra careful not to slip on the stairs, Martin would  _ kill _ him. No he wouldn't, he'd just be concerned. Still.

The car is unlocked, because who would want through this snow just to steal a gender-agnostic selection of clothing? 

Jon climbs in the back seat, nudging some bags aside and shuts the door behind him. He'll have to be careful not to get snowed in, that would be bad.

He finds the boots quickly, because Tessa's recommendation was amazing. Faux-fur lined and with room for him to move his toes around, which is always a treat. Jon didn't take his eyes off of them until he knew exactly where they would be. (Good things tend to get away from him, like his favorite pens, so Jon Watches closely. Very closely.) 

The flannel pajamas take a little bit longer to find, in the midst of his digging, Jon finds his underwear, socks, a pair of house slippers, and the fleece-lined shirt, and piles them into one arm. He finds the pajamas in red and black check plaid on the far wall, grabs them, and steps out the car–careful on the stairs– and throws the front door open.

"Christ Jon!" Martin says, jumping back before the door knob could give him a nasty bruise on the hip. "I was about to you out and get you but I couldn't find my...boots."

"Sorry about that." Jon kicks the boots in question off, leaving them scattered in front of the shoe rack. Martin bends to fix them. "Don't! I did that, I'll get it when my hands are free." Jon says quickly, because he  _ hates _ when people pick up after him before he has the chance to.

Jon drops his slippers and puts them on. They're almost as satisfying to walk in as Martin's shoes. He dashes to the bedroom, puts his socks and underwear in an appropriate drawer, throws his pajamas over the desk (the one that Jon swears to never record a statement at. Martin will love that desk, so Jon can eat at the table like a normal person), hangs up his skirt in the closest and runs back out where Martin is still standing, smiling nervously. Jon smiles at Martin, then drops to his knees in front of the shoes rack–that hurts a bit, but not enough to care– and puts his and Martin's boots neatly next to each other.

Then he switches two of them, so the boots sit in the order of Martin's, Jon's, Martin's, Jon's. Because it feels right.

Only then does Jon stand and give Martin his full attention, realizing he's breathing hard and also something smells good.

"You going okay, there?" Martin asks, still smiling but in a worried way.

Jon nods, and then realizes he has to exaggerate the gesture beyond what feels normal so Martin can actually see it. He makes an exploding gesture near his temple a few times. "A lot's happening. Nothing bad though."

"Oh." Martin says, "Is this like the time when you–"

"Yes it's like the time I organized the clown section in four hours. I really hoped you'd forgotten about that."

Jon rolls up onto the balls of his feet and back onto his heels a few times while Martin says something he isn't listening to because he doubts it's important. Which is a wrong thought, because everything Martin says is very important to Jon, but he thinks it anyways.

"What's cooking?" Jon asks as soon as it doesn't seem rude to.

"Ah, I got started on some chicken soup if you're–"

"Why? I thought you were tired?"

"Well I'm going to be hungry soon, and I thought you'd be…"

Jon goes over to the kitchen, Martin's sweating the onions and celery and preboiling oregano in the chicken broth, which is something Jon's hasn't seen before but could be a good idea.

Jon turns back to Martin.

"I got it from here, sit down."

"But I was already–"

"And you're tired now."

"But sweetheart–”

”Aht! You won't  _ sweetheart _ me out of this one." Jon pushes Martin gently back by the shoulders. "You're tired. That's okay. Allow me."

Martin sinks back onto the couch when he reaches it. "Are you sure?"

" _ Yes. _ " Jon says, and makes the explosied gesture again, "It helps to be doing something, and it's nice to know you're getting rest too."

Jon reaches over Martin's shoulders to pull the throw blanket around him. (Around Martin. Around Martin, his boyfriend. Around his boyfriend. Boyfriend.) Jon runs his hands over the flat of Martin's chest, humming with satisfaction, his brain growing foggy with a layer of the stuff. Martin will need to be taking his binder off soon, Jon notes in the back of his mind.

He doesn't have the chance to remind Martin before he's distracted by the hands wrapped around either side of his waist. Martin pulls him in, and Jon obligues, framing his knees around Martin's hips, and sitting back onto his lap. 

They lock eyes. Martin's are such a rich, dark brown. Hooded and mono-lidded and strikingly  _ homey _ . Jon has the irrational, but comforting thought that Martin's eyes won't ever change. And isn't that beautiful. Jon keeps rubbing his hands up and down the front of Martin's shirt.

"You're very pretty." Martin breathes, he squeezes at Jon's waist experimentally.

"Am I, now?" Jon hums. He lowers his face towards Martin's neck like it belongs there, nuzzling into Martin's skin.

"Jo-o-on." Martin laughs, "I told you not to do that!" He bends his neck away from Jon, giving him better access. 

Jon pulls away, but just barely, letting his breath grace the skin. "If you don't want me to…"

Martin huffs, "Of course I want you to–"

"Say yes or no."

" _ Yes _ ."

"And you know you can always say no."

Whatever Martin's response, it's cut off by his snort of laughter when Jon presses a chaste kiss to his neck. And then another. 

Martin needs to shave too.

Jon sits up, admiring the change between how Martin was before and how he is now, redder, eyes half-lidded, breath pouring from his parted lips like blessing after blessing that Jon wants to take into himself and keep forever.

He puts his hand on the center of Martin's chest, feeling the steady  _ tThump, tThump, tThump _ , of his heart beating hard. Martin is alive. Jon is alive too. They can  _ breathe _ together, just like that. Jon syncs their breath. Oh, isn't this life a blessing? Moments free from fear and miraculously breathing, having the power and the consciousness to control a body, to move, to experience.

Martin notices, blinking slowly and sighing again. He drips with contentment, not  _ wanting _ but  _ having _ . Emotion practically pours from his ears. Jon wants to ask if he can hear it, but Martin won't know what that means.

He kisses one corner of Martin's lips, and then the other, which is smiling when he gets to it. 

"Absolutely stunning." Jon breathes, he doesn't think about it, doesn't plan his words carefully or trim his emotions into a shape more easily processed, no. He just allows himself to feel, which he can do now, freely, because he  _ has _ Martin. Has him right there, on his couch and breathless.

"I'm not, though." Martin argues.

"Wrong answer, hHot stuff. " Jon kisses Martin's forehead, the man  _ squeaks _ . "Want to try again?"

"Not if it means you'll keep doing this." Martin brings Jon's palm up to his lips, brushing over the skin there and making Jon shiver, before pressing a firm kiss on it's center. 

Jon sweeps Martin's black curls behind his ear. They spring right back into place, but it doesn't matter.  _ Nothing _ else matters as Jon cups Martin's jaw in his hand, face going soft when Martin presses into it.

"Either you can admit that you're beautiful, and I can go finish the soup, or I can just go finish the soup and be mildly upset." Jon threatens playfully.

Martin groans, wrapping his arms more fully around Jon and pulling him in, chest to chest. He kisses Jon's cheek. "What can I do to make you stay."

"I'm cooking, remember?"

"You could just stop. I'm okay with being hungry."

" _ I'm _ not okay with you being hungry. And I can't leave the gas on. Either way, we'll set off the smoke detectors and nobody wants that." Jon pats Martin's arms, and they loosen around him, not fully, he still has to wiggle his way off.

Martin reaches up towards Jon when he finally stands, before letting his hands fall back to lap. Martin sits palms-up and looking woefully empty, a small, adorable frown on his face. Jon wants to wipe that frown away, and he will, but later.

"Baby, get some rest?"

Martin smiles slightly, and moves to shake his head, but the motion continues into him slumping over a little into the couch, dead asleep.

-</Jon>-

_ I pile our bed with the softest of things _

_ It’s out nest of rest, out haven away from _

_ The world that snarls, snaps and draws blood. _

_ Under the blankets, it’s away from us _

_ I crowd out floor with the prettiest rugs _

_ To keep from the cold of the old natural boards _

_ The reminder of hateful history in our own home, _

_ Over the carpets, you can I can stay warm _

-<Martin>-

Martin wakes up the sound of the TV going softly, the wind howling outside and something on his lap.

When he opens his eyes, Jon's settling into where he throws his leg's over Martin's and rests his back against the armrest. He looks smug as he leans forward to grab a bowl from off the coffee table, putting it into Martin's hands. 

"You've got that look on your face, Jon. What aren't you saying?'

" It's  [ nothing ](https://youtu.be/a3f7n08yYUU) ."

"Alright…" Martin eats a spoonful of soup without thinking, and winces under the jolt of pain. He immediately spits it out.

"That bad?" Jon asks, frowning down at his own bowl.

"No! It's delicious, just  _ boiling _ hot." Martin says, sticking out his tongue.

"Want me to kiss it better?" Jon jokes.

'Please’ is what Martin wants to say.

"Ha. I'm a grown man, I think I can eat a bowl of soup." 

Jon hums, "I'll see it when I believe it."

Martin smacks him on the arm, to which Jon chuckles, and only then notices the red flannel pajamas Jon's wearing.

"Is it bedtime? How long have I been asleep?"

"Hm. Maybe an hour or two? I went and had a statement while you were out, and it's not like we'll be going anywhere–”

"Wait,  _ you had a statement _ ?"

"...Yes."

"Jon." Martin groans, "You can't just do that. We're saving them."

Jon frowns, his face folding in toward the center, "I just thought, you know, if I had one  _ now _ I could go a while without another." He meets Martin's eyes, flinches a little, and then stares resolutely just past Martin's shoulder. "I wanted to give you all my attention."

Martin takes a deep breath, letting his lungs fill to capacity and then deflate. 

He focuses on his dinner next, knowing Jon won't let him do anything without eating. Jon's put his bowl aside and is pretending not to stare.

Martin's empty bowl hits the coffee table. 

He pats Jon's legs, "Up. I need to stand." 

Jon swings his legs off, sitting normally beside Martin, who promptly stands, turns, and puts one knee on the couch. He slips his arms underneath Jon's shoulder blades and knees, respectively, and  _ lifts. _

Jon gasps, flailing for a handhold until he wraps his arms around Martin's neck.

"Are we good there?" Martin asks.

Jon snaps his ankles, and Martin allows him the moment to think. Jon furrows his brow the same way he does when unraveling great mysteries, or figuring out how to stop the apocalypse, and it's equally endearing. He nods once to himself, a barely-there motion and presses his face against Martin's collar bone. Martin feels more than he hears the word 'Yes' on his skin.

He takes a small, experimental step, And Jon doesn't react save hugging Martin tighter, so he keeps going.

Martin struggles with the bedroom door for that must be a whole minute before Jon unwraps one arm and reaches down to twist the handle, pushing it forcefully open. He flips the door the bird, Martin barks a laugh at that, and then rewraps himself.

Martin kicks the door shut behind them, lowering Jon to the floor. Jon clings and complains the whole way down.

"The bed isn't made." Martin says, solemnly.

"So what?" Jon grabs his wrist and starts tugging. "We can do that later."

" _ No _ , Jon, this has to be perfect."

Jon let's go as soon as 'no' leaves Martin's lips, and his foot strikes the ground once. Martin knows he isn't angry, it's just something that happens when Jon gets flustered. 

Martin goes to the closet to pull out their as-of-yet unopened bedding set. the black one, of course. Technically they should wash it before use, But Martin draws the line at waiting another two hours for  _ this _ .

When he turns back, armed with the fitted sheet, Jon is lounging, sprawled out, on the mattress.

"You know." Martin says, "Scientists say it's 100% easier to make a bed if someone isn't in it."

"Do they?" Jon answers, sprawling further, "What else do they say?"

"Oh plenty of things. They even have a special jargon for this kind of behavior, they call it  _ being a bastard _ ."

"Mhm, interesting." Jon says, making snow angels.

" _ Jon, _ please move."

"I am unable to," Jon says, moving. "You'll just have to pick me up, it seems."

"Or I could pick up the mattress and roll you off of it."

"But you won't." Jon's smiling like the epitome of a-problem-and-they-know-it. Martin is going to kiss that smug expression right off of Jon's face  _ just you wait _ .

He drops the sheet, and bends to put his hands in the proper positions for a bridal-style carry. Jon yelps when Martin pulls him to the edge of the bed in one swift motion, but it quickly dissolves into laughter as Martin picks him up, carries him a few feet away, and sets him down.

Martin bends for the fitted sheet, and when he looks back up, there Jon is again, reclining on the bare mattress and grinning.

Martin, wide-eyed, takes a deep breath through his nose. 

"Do you still want to do this?" He asks, dubiously.

Jon rolls over onto his back, bouncing on the mattress springs. "Yes."

"Then why are you–  _ why _ ?"

"Fun." Jon answers. He kicks his feet into the air and moves them around there, head falling sideways to look at Martin, "And because you look very pretty when you're flustered, not  _ more _ pretty, but  _ different _ pretty. And you're strong–"

Martin huffs again, feeling his body tense up with the praise, "Yes I  _ get _ it. Will you please get up now?"

"On one condition." He holds up a finger.

"I'm listening."

Jon pauses.

"On several conditions." More fingers.

"Oh my god, Jon."

"First, You pick me up again. Second, I get a kiss, and third, we have to talk about something."

It's the third one that worries Martin, but he obliges, scooping Jon up again. Jon is a human radiator, blazing, pleasantly, against Martin. Jon holds Martin like anchoring himself to shore, even though he’s not the one at risk to drift away. Holding on with the conviction of some who has lost once before and knows that even if they lose again, they're making memories they won't regret.

Jon keeps his arms looped around Martin's neck when he's put down this time, and Martin's pulled forward, bending at the hip. 

Jon looks seconds away from a remark about 'getting on the same level,' but when he opens his mouth, it's only to wet his lips. He blinks very slowly, exaggerating his breathing until Martin matches. Jon looks happy, Martin is happy. Their noses brush together. A spark of warmth, like completing the circuit their bodies form, electricity spiraling from where Martin's hands grip Jon's waist around to where their faces touch. It curls around Martin's spine in a tickling dance, down to his toes, making them curl up in anticipation. He pulls Jon a little closer.

Jon brushes his hand down the length of Martin's arm, silently urging him to relax, asking for more trust, more control, and Martin gives it with the lock of eyes that says, "Anything. Anything for you."

Jon's breath falls from parted lips onto Martin's lips, a long exhale. The moment seems to stretch on forever and Martin wouldn't mind at all if that were the truth. A small part of Martin's mind screams to insist, to pull Jon in and make it happen, but he doesn't. 

Because he trusts.

_ You did not escape me _

_ I analyzed and absorbed you _

_ Found and filed every flaw, _

_ Emulated every good thing _

_ I know the kinds of things you say _

_ How, and in what order _

Something in Jon's eyes changes, focusing on Martin more so than before, Seeing him, watching as if he's the only thing for miles worth noticing. 

_ I know the clock you oscillate to _

_ The average bpm of the songs your hum _

_ And the pattern in which _

_ You tap your foot and snap your fingers _

_ I know how long you hold a hug _

_ How tight you hold a grudge _

_ And how much you’d like to hold me _

And then it's  _ bliss _ . All warmth and softness and slow movement that Martin  _ knows _ , somewhere in the logical mind– long-buried in favor of the more interesting, the more urgent, the sensual mind– that the touch is only between a small part of both of them. Only the lips. Which feels like blasphemy to think, as if the lips, Jon's lips, are any small thing, as if they couldn't kill, as if they couldn't reach into someone's mind, soul, and history and pry painful memories and knowledges away from them to suck on like candy. But the opposite is also true, Martin knows, because he never  _ told _ Jon how he likes to be kissed, tentatively at first, but more deeply later– _ later _ , because Martin is allowed more of this soon. He might cry with the feeling of privilege– but Jon does it anyway. 

Jon draws Martin's bottom lip between his teeth as he pulls away, placing his hand on Martin's jaw ever so gently. All Martin feels is power and hope and care. Care. The feeling of it is pumped through his heart into every limb.

Jon squeezes Martin's hand, long and slow.

_ This is my declaration, _

_ Not words, but the completeness _

"How are we feeling? Okay? No sudden visions of horror?"

Martin snorts, his brain still foggy with the floating feeling. "The only horror I see right now is you."

Jon frowns.

"Hey, I didn't mean that–”

"Yes, I know." He takes a breath, "Martin, I don't want to have sex with you."

"Oh, okay.".

A pause.

"I mean, me too. I thought you were gonna say you didn't want to date or something, I was a bit worried there."

"You're my boyfriend–-what?" Jon blinks a few times. "Wait– So– Wait. So you mean you don't want to have sex,  _ ever _ ?"

"I'm pretty sure that's what being ace means. My flavor, at least. You didn't know?"

"What do you mean I didn't  _ know _ ."

"I mean, you have your spooky eye powers and such–”

"I'd never invade your privacy like that."

"–But also like, vibes, you know?

"... Vibes."

"Yeah. Ace vibes. Gay vibes. Vibes."

Jon plants his face into Martin's shoulder, laughing his sweet, slow laugh. "Sure." he says, "Vibes. Why not."

Then Jon starts humming, some sort of rhythmless tune so clearly and poorly improvised. But it sounds happy, and that's what matters. Jon traces his hands down from Martin's face, tingles erupting under every touch, and down until he can wrap his arms around Martin's back, pressing closer. Jon guides them into a sway, shuttering to the time of that song he's humming like he's never heard of 4/4. And Martin's laughing and hugging Jon right back, feeling welcome here. 

Jon pulls back, hands on Martin's forearms, fingers continuing to tap-dance along Martin's skin even as the two stop swaying and Jon stops humming.

"So what do you want to do?" Jon asks.

"I assumed the plan was to make out until we fall asleep."

Jon bends to pick up the fitted blanket, that same dangerous grin on his face again, "Then we'd better get started. Shall we?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kiss happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs for explicit body dysphoria specifically of the ftm trans variety

_ Do not love me unconditionally _

_ In my humanity, I can be cruel _

_ Let your fist and tongue be yielding _

_ Let the gavel feel heavy in your hand _

_ Love me only if _

_ If I am good to you, demand i be better _

_ And if not, kindly disappear _

_ Leave me not the mercy of a reason _

_ Love me as a choice to love me _

_ A long-debated conclusion _

_ The final resounding yes _

_ Let your love for me sound like the toll of a clock _

_ Announcing the beginning of an era _

_ Through which we might pass in peace. _

-<Jon>-

It takes Jon longer than he's proud of to realize Martin's being a pain on purpose. Though it's hardly his fault, Martin has the poker face of James Bond, and such an adorably unassuming nature you won't even realize. He'd tricked Peter, after all. 

About the third time Jon finds himself buried in the comforter, Martin finally cracks, giggling with a hand over his mouth. Jon swims out of the mass of thick fabric and shoots Martin a glare, which only makes him laugh harder. 

"That's," Martin wheezes, one arm clutching his stomach and the other flailing for a handhold, which he finds in their dresser, leaning on it to lower himself slowly as his knees give out , "That is what you– hehe–  _ get _ ! Teheh! Haha!"

Jon's own medicine tastes  _ terrible _ .

"Yes, well. Can we get on with it now?"

"Get on with what? I don't recall–"

" _ Martin _ ." Jon says.

The overly innocent expression doesn't leave Martin's face. "Yea?"

"Get over here, now,  _ please _ , or I'll– I'll–" Jon's at a loss for playful threats.

Martin isn't apparently, "Or you'll what? You may have all the spooky googly eye powers but you're still, like, 5'4 and eight stone. I could carry you like a sack of potatoes."

"That's hardly a threat, though, I'd enjoy that." Jon says, throwing himself onto his back.

"Who's to say I don't enjoy being beheld by you?"

_ -By you _ .

Jon isn't sure how to respond.

"But you'll have to a-hold me first and c-hold me after."

"Dammit, Martin. I'm going to sleep." Jon turns to face the other wall dramatically, if only to hide his growing smile. So what if he has a soft-spot for alphabet based humor?

"C-hold!" Martin repeats, and then comes the clear sound of him slapping his knee and banging the dresser. 

Jon sniggers, and turns back over to face Martin, who's already staring, biting his lip in amusement. "Get over here."

Martin rolls to his feet. With every step he takes, Jon has to look up, up, up, until it's Martin above him instead of the ceiling, smiling softly. 

Martin's hands make the bed sink on either side of Jon's head as he positions himself. One leg slips between Jon's own. Not pressing, not urgent, just a place to rest his weight. 

It's nice. A reminder that Jon isn’t some burden. Inconvenience.  _ Monster _ . He’s useful to Martin this way. Though useful isn’t quite the right word. Like Jon is that socket and Martin is the ball and they form a joint in some great machine.

Jon curls up on himself when he's sleeping alone; The sprawl of this position is another reminder that he isn't, he never was, alone, not really. Not just because of Martin.

Martin wasn’t the only one who’d brought Jon tea. Before he was there, back in research, it was Sasha. Every day she came with a warm smile and a niche? joke or bit of office gossip that would make Jon smile. Some days, it was the only time he smiled. 

He sees bits of her in Martin, what he can remember. The Eeye can get the feeling back, the summary of her, but not the identity as a whole. That’s okay, though. It’s the thought that counts. It’s mourning her at all. Remembering that there is anything to mourn. 

The curve of Martin’s cheek. The way Jon associates the mere sight of him with joy. The way he raises his eyebrows when Jon’s rants cross the border from educational into emotional, the corner of their lips twitching.

Sasha never complained when Martin started making the tea. If anything, she seemed relieved. She always made the water too hot, and the mugs she’d give Jon had a background note of bitterness. She made a habit of popping in every morning, instead of tea time.

Now that Jon’s thinking about it, she may have stayed quiet to be a good wing-man. Sasha was always doing that. Something in Jon’s head goes  _ that wasn’t Sasha, that wasn’t her. This isn’t real. _ But that isn’t the point. She’s human, regardless of what kind of human she was.

When Jon pulled away, when he coiled in on himself in his too-large office, with lights just dim enough to make him squint into the corners, thinking he’d seen something, Sasha let him go. Jon regrets many, many things, and that is one of them. Sasha was a good woman. 

But right now is a happy time, so he will take those happy memories and wear them like a necklace. They’ll make Sasha a grave, Tim too. They would like it out here. They'll rest well.

Jon looks at Martin with a renewed gratitude. He brings his hands to either side of Martin's face, careful not to cover his ears– a reminder of the pressure of the lonely– and squishes Martin's face a little, an indulgence, a reminder. It only makes Martin smile more against his hands, showing teeth, and the feeling is  _ glorious _ .

"Tell me you're not going anywhere." Jon breathes.

"Jon?"

"You don't have to mean it, I know the future happens, I know that I… Change. But tell me that you're staying, just for tonight."

Martin's face falls into a soft look that might have been pity if not for the blush on his cheeks and the way the skin folds around his eyes. He leans in slowly to press a kiss against Jon's forehead.

"I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight, not e–”

"Don't promise me that. I'm still dangerous. The world's still dangerous."

Martin snorts. "Okay."

"What?"

"Oh-Oh, my name is Jonathan Sims and I'm spooky + dangerous."

"I can be dangerous!"

"Not to me." Martin presses his forehead to Jon's, "A dangerous man wouldn't ask me to say I'll stay as if I hadn't stayed since the beginning."

Jon swallows, "When was the beginning?"

Another kiss, on the skin just under Jon's eye, towards his temple. "Earlier than you'd believe."

What Jon wants to say is 'Try me.'

'I've believed since the start. I knew, I've always known and needed to know  _ more _ . I want to  _ Know _ you.'

What Jon actually says is, "Kiss me."

Which, he feels, is the better choice.

Martin is slow, almost infuriatingly so. He kisses all the curves and Jon's face, muttering sweet things Jon is too entranced to really hear. It makes Jon feel beautiful, like a statue under the praise of a normally cynical critic, but Jon doesn't want to feel beautiful, not right now, he wants to feel loved.

He cards his hands lightly through the curl of Martin's hair, feeling the vibration of Martin's satisfied hum against his nose. 

Jon Knows.

He Knows, Knows, Knows.

_ “His kiss begins like the touch of spring _

_ The shameplant unfurling without shame _

_ as soft as sunlight without more _

_ The beginnings of what was gone to us– _

_ a shadow rolling over hills,  _

_ the cloud promising rain” _

"Oh, Jon."

_ “the flowers take many days to bloom _

_ through every stage the color bursts _

_ like half popped-kernels in the cottage where _

_ He kisses over me, I Know _

_ that there once was fear in this sacred house– _

_ he banishes by being here _

_ he summons joy up through the dirt” _

Silence, for a moment.

"Christ, Jon, who wrote that?"

Jon blinks. Martin is still there, of course he is, he gave his word."Who wrote what?"

"The poem?"

"The– Ah. Didn't know I was saying that out." Jon thinks, it isn't exactly an easy answer, "You did?"

"I'm pretty sure I didn't. 

"Maybe not physically."

"Eye stuff?"

"Eye stuff."

Martin lets himself collapse onto the bed next to Jon, who immediately turns to face him.

"Tell me about it."

Jon opens his mouth. Shuts it. Tries again, "I… Hm. The eye has all human knowledge, yes?"

"If you say so."

"Hm, yes. But it isn't in any  _ language _ most people understand. It's all things you know about yourself already there and I'm... I'm a translator, of sorts."

"So I'm your muse?"

"Sort of–”

"Aht. Let me have this. Shall I lay out on the kitchen table in a toga? 'Draw me like one of your french girls' style?"

Jon snorts, "I'm pretty sure she wasn't in a toga."

"Are you suggesting...How Salacious!"

"Martin!"

"If that's what you'd like to see–"

Jon laughs, he slaps Martin lightly on the arm, and then leaves it resting there, rubbing up and down. When Jon opens his eyes, Martin is staring softly again. Jon opts not to tease him for it.

"Call me your muse." Martin whispers, blinking slow. Jon runs his thumb over Martin’s forehead.

"You're my muse." Jon says He reaches forward to plant a kiss on Martin's cheek, "You're my reason."

Martin coos happily.

Then his nose is sliding against Jon's and their lips are together. Warmth curls through Jon's body like Jude Perry with a moral compass. His heart fireworks. Martin's hand moves to the small of his back and lays flat there. Steady pressure. It feels  _ good _ . Jon grabs the collar of the old T-shirt Martin changed into earlier and pulls him in closer, letting his other hand tangle in Martin's hair.

Then the crash.

_ "Not a symphony, but a /ˈsimbəl/* _

_ That comes with no hesitation,  _

_ that does not yield _

_ like the greatest of soldiers _

_ on the worst battle fields _

_ but somehow lovely– _

_ Water against cliff _

_ (Water shatters! Light bounces!  _

_ Fractal Image! kaleidoscope!) _

_ parting with ease under a firm hand, _

_ I would mold to him like water" _

[* Meaning both cymbal and symbol, phonetic spelling so it translates like it would verbally.]

"Jon." Martin says sternly, Jon's eyes refocus on him as the last words spill from his lips.

"Yes, Martin?"

"I love you. Please be quiet." He says in earnest, before kissing Jon again.

Martin's mouth is hot against Jon's, they both pull in so close, so fast, that their teeth scrape against one another's. Martin wrinkles his nose at the feeling, pulling back a short distance, and Jon lets him return in his own time.

It doesn't take long. They fall onto the cushion of each other's puckered lips and then keep falling. Mouths flat and noses flush.

Martin chuckles, the air falling onto the stubble above Jon's lip.

"Something funny?" Jon asks, pressing the side of his face to Martin's to whisper in the vague direction of Martin's ear. He plants a kiss there.

"Not at all." Martin replies, and hums to himself. Jon can feel the vibration through his cheek bone, "Besides you." He turns his neck away as Jon starts placing kisses down his jaw. 

"I'm…for you...yes..." Jon sighs, letting the conversation go lapse into silence, knowing it's neither of their priorities. He talks to Martin all the time, he  _ deeply _ enjoys doing so, but this? Pressing kisses to Martin's skin, watching through half-lidded eyes as Martin sighs and shifts and flushes a million pretty shades of red, feeling Martin's hand slip under Jon's shirt and rest on the bare skin of his lower back. This is something rich and new. 

Too personal to be a voyeur, Jon realizes he's Martin's lover, boyfriend, his sack of potatoes and  _ not _ his archivist. In turn, Martin is Jon's muse, his extra set of hands, his giggling human chariot, both his anchor and the currents that force Jon to move. His  _ everything _ .

A sound escapes Jon's throat at the thought and he presses ever closer, rolling right on top of Martin, straddling him. Marin adjusts. Jon opens his mouth into the kiss and Martin is ready for it. He wants to say "mine" and then again. And then again. But Jon's tongue is occupied in the breathless tumult happening between them. And thought 'mine' has all the feeling, the meaning isn't there. 

Is it in this language? Is it in any language, the full breadth of what Jon feels for Martin? What could he even say? If I was the Poincaré conjecture you would be my undefined terms. My prehistory. My primitive data types, no, my boolean. Or rather my main method? No matter, none of it is enough.

Maybe something more universal, the Mandela effect, with its charm underlying whole cultures. Göbekli Tepe, origin of belief, predating even the organized need to eat. More fundamental. The genome. No. Atoms

No. Protons. But that suggests a positivity assigned by Man. Smaller.  _ More.  _ not quirks, strings. Not strings, the very web of energy that is inherent with the verb  _ to be.  _ The microscopic vibration that is existence. 

Martin shakes with it, the nervousness, the spinning of electrons in the cells in his skin. Jon Sees. He Sees it all, The Eye glowing a bright green like a fresh brand in the back of his skull.

It isn't painful, but it is  _ so much _ . The normal buzzing of Jon's excitement with a brain that screams  _ new place! _ And the snapping, bitter, fearing part of him that wants love, that ancient, that wretched thing, that hope, the part of him that accepts the pain of love but not without fighting, it stacks upon the blood-fuel The Eye pumps though Jon's veins, like what caffeine does for the  nuerotypical . Jon feels like he could do anything, be anything,  _ love _ anything.

And he chooses Martin.

Jon tries to push this through the kiss, but how to explain  _ quantum physics  _ in the roll of lips, the brush of tongue, the occasional unproductive crash of their noses? You can't.

Jon brings Martin's wrists above his head, held wide. If there's one thing The Eye is good for, it isn't poetry or scouring English (he should have tried polish) for some metaphor that finally  _ clicks _ . No, it's good for telling him exactly how to kiss Martin senseless. The playfulness of Martin trying to get his own way long faded out into utter relaxation, because Jon's giving it to him without a fight. Martin breathes deeply through his nose, as Jon kisses him in stretches so long it might be endurance training, before pulling away to pepper his face, forehead, jaw, neck, and collar bone (but never lower) with quick pecks. Martin giggles over the levity of the affection, interspersed with cute little snorts. And when Jon mouths Martin's neck in a heavier gesture, Martin's lips form a big O, letting out hardly aspirated sounds, and still laughing intermittently with his teeth biting down on his lower lip. Martin's little symphony fills Jon's heart up to the brim with ambrosia and then keeps pouring. The feeling physical, chemical, and a touch supernatural too.

Martin isn't that field of energy, it's just one thing, and too broad, too great. Jon doesn't love Martin for his cosmic power, anything (everything) but that. Martin isn't a  _ piece _ of Jon either. He's something that's shaped him wholly and deeply, something that's been there for him. The history instead of the material, Yes!

(Jon doesn't realize he makes a sound of victory into Martin's mouth, making Martin dive into another giggling fit.)

What's the word?

The library.

Jon relaxes into the kiss, The Eye slowing down on him, finally. Martin works his jaw to make up the slack. Distinctly pleased he gets the chance to do so.

The library by his grandmother's house, a small place, he'd read through everything policy allowed him to check out at his age too quickly for his grandmother's comfort. Even then, she still dropped him off with her own books while she ran errands sometimes. And the librarians there would sometimes approach the flighty, skinny kid curled up on the beanbags with offers of their extra cookies or a game of chest. The quiet, unappreciated company, that Jon is  _ so grateful _ for now. The books that taught Jon the premise of calculus, the fact that he hates calculus, and the invaluable pages of  _ ADHD and me.  _ The warmth and the safe space.

That's what Martin is.

Jon let's himself collapse onto Martin's belly, earning an "oof!" From Martin, but he doesn't complain, only laces his now free hands around the small of Jon's back.

Jon yawns, taking the time to check himself for discomfort, but there's no warning of curled toes or tense pinkies, and his brain buzzes soft with post-kiss chemicals.

"How are you doing?" Jon asks, already burying his head into Martin's next to sleep.

"Good." Martin says, "Really good. You're great at that. Kissing, I mean. I liked that."

Jon chuckles, “I mean, there has to be  _ one _ benefit for being in a relationship with me.” The drop in Martin’s mood is physical, “I joke, I joke!"

-</Jon>-

_ I thought I wanted to be a poet, _

_ But now I want to be a pen _

  
  


-<Martin>-

“You’d better be joking," Martin says, running his hand over Jon's head in a smooth petting motion. "You’re not the only one who can wax poetic.”

Jon chuckles, “Is that a challenge?”

“Might be.” 

Jon doesn't respond, instead wrapping his arms around Martin’s body, tucking his chin into whatever crooks of Martin he can find, getting comfortable. 

Martin eyebrows knit together, “Darling," he says carefully, "We can do this in a moment, I need you to get up.”

Jon rolls off to the side without question. He groans the whole time. 

“You’ll survive,” Martin chastises.

“Hardly. I’m deteriorating as we speak, you’d better hurry up or there will be nothing but dust in the bed waiting for you. Dust and two eyeballs."

Martin laughs, but as the spike of joy fades out of his mind, his nervousness makes itself known.

Martin tries to smile, glad for the darkness. He makes quick work of pulling off his shirt, that's the easy part, the meaningless part. When Martin's hands creep upwards, he can feel them shake against his collar bone. He pinches the zipper of his binder, facing away from Jon, takes a deep breath, and pulls it down in one go before he’s tempted to spend the night in it. He shrugs out of the arms quickly, (He feels it, horrible thing roiling it's head), and scrambles for his shirt, pulling the fabric back over himself and holding his arms away from his chest. 

Martin takes a deep breath. He's okay. He's- and this time he genuinely takes stock of his body- really okay, not just trying to convince himself.

“You alright, babe?” Jon asks, his voice is carefully light.

“Mhm! Just fine. Just- just.” Martin climbs into bed, under the sheets with Jon. Far from Jon. He’s almost hanging off the bed.

Jon turns to face him, voice still forming in that tone of innocent prying. “Would you like to cuddle?” The gentleness would seem insincere, but it's  _ Jon _ . They're done with insincerity. They've  _ been _ done with it.

Yes and no and very much yes but maybe absolutely not.  _ Yes, I want to, but I am so, so afraid. What if your touch hurts and I have to pull away, to drift away? I don't want that, Jon. I am afraid. As good as you can be, can feel, Jon, I am still afraid. I don't want to be afraid of you. _

And then familiar thoughts, from another, mistier time.  _ I am okay, but save me, save me, save me. If only someone would save I am ok save me.  _ The thoughts spiral and twist together, cutting  each eachother off, snapping, two fighting snakes. 

And then, cutting through the image, the single thought, quieter but still resounding, what allowed Martin to be saved from the hungry Lonely, twice now:

_ I think I need help. _

All Martin says is a strained “Hm.” He inhales through his mouth, and tries again, but his throat closes off on his words. That's okay. He's done enough. 

Jon hums sympathetically, “Come closer? Get comfor-"

“ _ Jon _ .” Martin snaps. He immediately hates himself for it, guilt and shame dashing through this tiny opening and making a home in his stomach. Of course the only words he can manage are hateful ones, of course! Because he's  _ Martin _ . because he  _ is- _

Martin cuts off the thought. A deep breath. Short words. Baby steps. He's okay. He's okay. “Hh. Ah. One...hOne  second'secon' " Martin stutters, "Yes, okay just- just give me a moment. Just-” Another breath. He rolls over to face Jon. 

Jon’s voice is barely a whisper, “Where can I touch you?”

“I- I don’t  _ know _ .” 

Jon takes an exaggerated breath, and Martin mimics it. Their breathing syncs, slow and soothing, and already, just in the way air comes into Martin's lungs, there's a small companionship. 

"Can I take your hand?"

Martin nods. He grips Jon tighter than can be comfortable, but Jon doesn't complain, only rubs his thumb over Martin's knuckles in slow dusts of movement. Martin is never letting go.

“If you're not sure, that's okay. We can figure it out. Tell me if you want me to stop. And remember you don't owe me anything, I'm happy as long as Ii know you're here. Will you stay with me, Martin?"

"Mhm, myes." Martin nods, listening to the sheets as Jon shifts.

“I’m going to touch your arm now.”

“H-Ookay, yes.” His throat fights him less. 

Martin feels himself growing more verbal. Baby steps.

Jon touches him, and, though Martin flinches, there’s nothing grand and evil there making him feel not-quite human. There’s only Jon’s touch, testing the waters hesitantly first, and then more confident, rubbing up and down the length of Martin’s arm.

“I’ve never- I mean- I- One- One." Martin works his jaw and tongue. He can do this, "I-It’s been ssso long since I’ve had someone with- with me like this. I’m-”

“Don’t say sorry." Jon says. There's pride in his voice and Martin  _ put it there. _ "There’s no need to apologize. You’re perfect.”

Martin hums. He smiles, that's new-that's… Tthat's nice.

“This is good. I know it's… Difficult you're doing really well, staying with me. Can I try your sides?”

“Yes, please.” 

Jon’s hand slips under Martin’s arm, and he sighs into the grounding weight. Jon pauses, nudges his hand just an inch higher, then stops. 

“I want to try your back next, I’ll have to come closer.” he says.

Jon's methodical, careful. And though Martin  _ knows _ he's feeling fragile, he's so, so impatient. He wants the comfort of Jon warm against him. Of his familiar stubble and way he hugs Martin, forearms pointing up like pillars, hands hooked on Martin's shoulders. He wants to stroke Jon's hair and press small kisses to wherever he can reach. Jon's  _ been _ there with their own dysphoria, Martin knows, if only vaguely. Martin's grateful, he's grateful  _ but- _

Martin huffs. He wraps his arms around Jon’s chest, and pulls Jon in flush. Martin's whole body tenses, Jon tenses too, making a sound of surprise. Martin feels it flare, first the small initial spike he expected, and then a slow growing.

Martin reminds himself that  _ he _ is with  _ his _ boyfriend. That he's Jon's  _ boyfriend _ . It doesn't help.

He doesn't cry.

Martin feels himself drifting away.

Shutting down.

_ No. _

Martin scrambles for Jon's hand, and presses desperately to the flat part at the top of his chest. Martin gasps, and  _ then _ the tears come. That's better, so much better. 

Jon, breathes an alarmed chuckle, and then returns to his rhythmic, legato breath. They relax together. They’re okay. 

They're okay.

Martin laughs like a maniac, hugging Jon in tight by the waist, tears racing down his cheeks. He can have this! He can have this with Jon! What a blessing, what a blessing. Jon's giggling too, taking it upon himself to kiss every tear on Martin's face. He leaves the one hand on Martin's chest, and brings the other to cup his jaw.

“Can I cuddle you now?” Jon asks, and under the sheets, Martin can feel his foot flicking. 

He laughs some more, “Yes, come here.” 

Jon buries his face in Martin's neck, and Martin can feel Jon’s smile against his skin. Martin bury's his hand in Jon's hair, entangles their legs, and it's heaven on earth.

Even as their movements grow slow and sleepy, the two of them laugh. The first night in the home they've made, in each other's arms, away from danger, it is a relief neither knew they were allowed.

In the last, soft words of the night, before they drift off to the first dreamless slumber they've had in months, Jon tells Martin about the library.

\---

_ I thought I knew love and I did not _

_ But I am coming to _

_ Love is a stomach bug _

  
  


_ Passed to you in passing by another _

_ And it grips me _

_ In waves that force out gasps _

  
  


_ And isn’t it such a precious gift to accept? _

_ Isn’t it joyous? _

_ Isn’t it honour in every way? _

  
  


_ A statement not said empty, but with intent _

_ Of which I am worthy _

_ Of which I am worthy! I am worthy! _

  
  


_ I thought I didn’t know love, I know love, _

_ I always have _

_ Love is the tears I will enjoy crying _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really hopes y'all like this and it brought you Joy. Once again wanted to say thanks to all those artist and betas from the TMABB that made this all happen. (EXTRA thanks to Tal who runs the sex-repulsed Jon ao3 collection and reminded me to put this fic in there today! Tal you're the reason why this is completed now, everyone say thanks Tal!!!) I'm finally shutting this chapter of my writing (first completed multi-chap! Wooo!) and it's been a literal physical journey. Life got wild. I think I'm allowed to be sentimental in this end note after such a sentimental chapter, but these poems really mean a lot to me. I wrote them when I was a different person, and I adore that person and I know they struggled and I remember the motivations to writing all of these (oh BOY can you tell some of these were about crushes) and that person is preserved in each and every one of these little snippets! I have a poetry sideblog i don't use. I'm far too into TPP but maybe if you came and yelled at me enough on [tumblr](https://drumkonwords.tumblr.com/) I could be convinced XD.  
> I write largely for TPP now! Cause it's significantly less depressing (no offense intended!) and I need that right now. If you're into TPP fluff of the same variety check me out. I'm especially proud of my latest [ When We Weave Ourselves Together](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29023488) which is more family fluff than intimacy fluff, but juuuust so. Check that out if you'd like.
> 
> comments and Kudos are ALWAYS appreciated. And one last time, thank you for reading. Enjoy whatever tragedy comes at the end of the show, and remember this fic when you need soem joy after you have a good cry ;)~~

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked this first chapter! This whole fic is written and just needs more editing, but I am very busy so I can't promise a date yet! 
> 
> More on my bang team:  
> (Art may contain spoilers for later chapters!)  
> -Hounds [art here.](https://corvidtowers.tumblr.com/post/636240634960920576/my-piece-for-the-drumkonwordss-work-the-spoken) [tumblr](HTTPS://corvidtowers.TUMBLR.COM%20tumblr%20and%20<a%20href=)[ and instagram!](https://instagram.com/corvidtowers?igshid=44dfud6tj6gs)  
> -Faby's [ art here](https://chromaticmelody.tumblr.com/post/636242730179297280/heres-my-official-fanart-for-ch4) [Tumblr](HTTPS://chromaticmelody.TUMBLR.COM/)  
> -Antiv3nom's art, [here.](https://antiv3nom.tumblr.com/post/636239810062925825/hey-yall-so-as-my-bio-states-im-an-artist-for) [ Here is their tumblr,](https://antiv3nom.tumblr.com/) [and instagram!](https://www.instagram.com/antiv3nomarts/?hl=en)
> 
> Beta work by:  
> -The Groovy Cai. [Tumblr](https://bisexualoftheblade.tumblr.com/)  
> cai also made the title card on the tumblr post that will be linked here when it is posted! They are a grammar MACHINE.  
> -The rockin Tal, [Tumblr](HTTPS://CORVIDTOWERS.TUMBLR.COM/)  
> Thanks for checking for aceness accuracy. I love your fics and really appreciate your feedback!  
> -The neato Sky, [Tumblr](https://lesbianbirds.tumblr.com/) Sky is an AMAZING beta and amazign writer too like holy goodness. My fic-sister-from-another-mister! Thank you so much for working with me!
> 
> Last and definitely most (/j) You can find my tumblr [right here!](https://drumkonwords.tumblr.com/)  
> Now, I am very very tired. So if you see formatting edits an such later on no you didn't <3.


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